


Stories Told With Silence

by scifigrl47



Series: Tales of the Bots [4]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Kid Dummy - Freeform, Kidfic, M/M, Parenting a bot, background Phil Coulson/Clint Barton - Freeform, custody battles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-07
Updated: 2014-03-05
Packaged: 2018-01-03 22:38:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 56,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1073873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scifigrl47/pseuds/scifigrl47
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Parenting is harder than it looks.  But, to be fair, so is being a human kid.</p><p>In which Tony becomes the rather overwhelmed parent to a bot who is no longer always a bot, and finds out that if DJ Stark is ever going to leave Stark Tower, then they've got to figure out a way to explain him to the US Government.</p><p>For the first time, Tony regrets that time he called members of congress "assclowns."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The continuing adventures of Kid!Dummy and his completely unprepared parents
> 
> A big part of this story is about letting a child decide, for himself, who he is, and how he will live his life, and the struggles that parents have with letting a child make those choices. As a direct sequel to "Bedtime Stories and Nightmares," we have a Dummy that is capable of changing his shape between his bot self and his human self. There is still no indication of who made this possible, or what their original intent was, other than to hurt Tony.
> 
> Dummy is referred to as Dummy, but as a human, has chosen the name DJ, and will be referred to as both of these, or Deej, as a nickname. Clint has a variety of nicknames for him, but no one pays attention to Clint. Which is a mistake, it just makes him work harder for attention.
> 
> Warnings: This story is going to deal with a struggle with identity, parents concealing information from children, binge drinking and hints of functioning alcoholism, and child fears of being unwillingly separated from his parents.

“You're telling me that I'm going to have to sue for custody?” Tony asked, absolutely stymied. It happened pretty often when he was talking to someone from his legal department, but he never really got used to the sensation of having lost touch with reality somehow. The law had very little to do with reality. He'd figured that out somewhere along the way. “Sue who for custody? He doesn't even have a biological mother. What- Am I supposed to find the Harry Potter villain who did this and serve him or her a subpoena?”

Josephine Rochester wasn't amused. She wasn't intimidated, either. Of course, she'd been the head of the legal department of StarkIndustries for five years now, so she'd dealt with worse than his sense of humor. “The situation with DJ is rather difficult,” she said. There was a stack of folders on the desk in front of her, and she rested one carefully manicured hand on top of them. “We have to take this very carefully.”

“I don't pay you to tell me things are difficult,” Tony ground out. “I'm aware that they're damn well difficult, Josephine. Why are you telling me this?”

“You don't pay me to blow smoke up your ass, either, Mr. Stark,” she said, her voice hard. “You pay me to do the best I can with what you give me, and stay on the gray side of legal.” She set her hands on the table, her fingers spread. Her nails were perfectly manicured, sharpened to a hard point, but they were pained a delicate, shell pink, obvious against the dark brown of her skin. Her crisp suit was a shade or two paler, a creamy linen with only the faintest hint of a blush to the tone. “So here is the reality of our situation.

“You have a boy with no paperwork, no records, no obvious origin, and, yes, no mother. Genetically, he is identical to you, or so close that any difference is immaterial. You can bring every magic user in town to come and testify on your behalf, but it is far more likely for any governing body to decide that DJ is the result of an illegal cloning experiment.”

“That's ridiculous,” Tony snarled, his head throbbing. He scraped a hand over his face. “That's-”

“That's something that they can understand, Mr. Stark. That's within the realm of their understanding. The government has a rather unhappy relationship with the concept of magic. There is no legal precedent for magic, and judges? They very much like precedent. 

“The Chitauri invasion doesn't count?” Tony asked. He slumped a little lower in his chair, his foot rattling against the floor. “I would think that would count as precedent.”

“Most people don't think of that as magic,” she said. She sounded tired, but she wasn't giving ground. “Yes, the world is changing every day. And honestly, Mr. Stark? The simplest answer is usually a lifeline in chaotic world. And the simplest answer here is that he is a clone.”

Tony stared at the surface of the desk. “And what does that mean?”

She took a breath, her nostrils flaring, her lips going into a tight line. “That means there is a chance that he will be subject to removal by the state. If they determine that he is a human being that has been, and likely will continue to be, subject to be scientific experimentation, they will remove him from your care.”

Tony's shoulders hunched forward. “Over my dead body,” he said, and the words were still and quiet, no rage, no exaggeration. He glanced up, meeting her eyes. “Do you understand that.”

It wasn't a question, but she answered anyway. “Let's hope it doesn't come to that.” She shook her head. “If this becomes public-”

“It can't,” Tony said. “Absolutely. Can. Not. That is priority number one, do you understand that?”

“I understand, but I don't understand why,” she said, frustration bleeding into the words. She pulled herself up short, her professionalism kicking in. “He's an adorable child, and he clearly adores you. Why won't you let the PR department use that?”

“Because the-” He stopped, and scraped a hand over his face. “The person that did this, the, well, for the lack of a better word, the wizard that did this-” He felt stupid even saying the damn word, even though this was his life now. “The wizard that did this, that gave him the capability to be human, we still don't know where he or she is, or even if the bastard is still alive.”

He stared down at his hand where it rested against the polished surface of his desk. “The first time he or she made 'contact' for lack of a better world, Dummy made a mess of his astral projection. According to Strange, that could've injured the caster, or even killed him or her. But we don't know. 

“So our buddy the wizard might still out there, and may not be aware that Dummy or DJ is still fine, still in control of the spell that was put on him, and still capable of being either a human child or a bot. The wizard might be dead, biding his or her time, or completely unaware of the situation. We don't know.”

“What do we know?” Jo asked.

“We know what we have to do to protect him. Do you know how many magic users there are in and around New York proper?” Tony asked, resting his chin on his fist.

She blinked. “I have no idea,” she said.

“Six months ago, I was blissfully ignorant as well,” Tony said, his voice cutting. “Now, I'm aware of every one of them. There are files, there are dossiers, there are fucking family trees filling my tower.” He glanced up, his eyebrows arched. “You know why?” She shook her head, and he gave her a tight smile. “Because anyone who can so much as produce a rabbit out of a hat, who falls anywhere above 'probably not evil' on SHIELD's morality rating, has been to the damn Tower.

“There are so many wards, protections, charms, blocks, and spells on Stark Tower right now that Strange keeps a book. There is a literal and physical leather bound book that Stephen Strange uses to make certain that each new spell that's slapped onto the place won't accidentally counteract or interfere with one that's already in place.” He caught the way his voice was rising, and reined himself in with an effort. “I have begged, borrowed, bought, or stolen, whatever protection I can give him.” His fingertip thudded against the desktop. “Asgardian. Romany. Vodun. Druidic. Magic systems that have no names, or names that can't be spoken with human tongues. I have used them all, and I have hidden him.”

He leaned back in his chair. “I won't expose him now. Not unless I have no choice.”

Jo studied him, her golden brown eyes brilliant beneath the sweep of her long black lashes. After a long moment, she nodded. “Then let us do our jobs. That is what you keep us on retainer for. We'll make some quiet inquiries. Feel out the situation, and the people involved.”

He took a deep breath. “I have allies.”

“You also have enemies,” Jo said. “Fewer than the news media would have us believe, but you have enemies, and they will be salivating at this. Even if they can't actually take him away from you-”

“They can't.” Tony gave her a very tight smile. “They won't.”

“Even if they can't,” Jo repeated, her voice stern, “they can draw this out, they can make your life difficult.”

“They can make my life as difficult as they want,” Tony gritted out, one hand cutting through the air. “I don't particularly give a damn. But if they mess with his life-”

“And they will.” She paused, her eyes closing. She took a deep breath, and reached up to pull her glasses off. “I'll be blunt, Mr. Stark. You do not live a life that makes you an ideal parent, at least not by the standards of the US Government. You have made yourself a target for both social critics and physical threats. Your public image is less than squeaky clean, and you have had very visible problems with alcohol.”

Tony refused to flinch. “What the hell does that matter?”

“It matters if one of the people who will take any excuse to go after you, someone in power that you've publicly humiliated or wronged, takes up the cause of high profile public figures who adopt or acquire children outside of the US legal system.” She shook her head. “It wouldn't be hard.”

“Are you fucking-”

“They can do it. They can make this a thing, Mr. Stark,” she snapped. “They can attack you with the law, with science, with morality. They can go after your child, and I believe they will.”

Tony stared at her. She stared back, her chin up, her eyes sharp. “What do you suggest?” he said, drained. Exhausted.

She was silent for a long moment. “Your best bet,” she said at last, “might be to start looking for a woman who will agree to-” She paused, her wide mouth pursing tight. “Who will state in a court of law that she is his mother.”

“What will that fix?” Tony asked. He let his eyes closed, his head falling back. “Will that suddenly make me acceptable?”

“No,” she said, “but it'll remove some of the biggest questions from the table.” She stacked up her folders and gathered them into her arms. “Don't do anything, for now. We will figure out how to do this in a way that limits our exposure, and protects him as much as we can.”

“Yeah.” Tony stood up. “Let me now what I need to do.”

“Just try to keep a low profile for the time being.”

“I'll keep my pants on in public,” Tony said. He stood, and he felt ancient. He felt like every blow he'd taken over the course of his life was still there, buried in his bones. Bruised, battered, he crossed to the windows and stared out over the city, leaning on arm on the glass.

“That would be for the best.” He could see her reflection in the window. “Keep him under wraps for now, and I'll do everything I can to move this through quickly. The faster we move, the less of a chance we have of things going wrong.”

There were so many things that could go wrong that he couldn't even begin to calculate them. But he could see them all, in the flat, dark plane of the glass in front of him. He closed his eyes. “Thank you,” he said, his tone dismissive, and she took the hint.

The door shut behind her, and Tony headed for the sideboard. With one hand, he wrenched his tie loose, with the other, he poured himself a large glass of very old, very potent scotch. With the glass in one hand, and the bottle in the other, he collapsed back into the desk chair, slumping low.

He toasted his reflection in the window. Without a word, he tossed back the drink, and with it still burning its way down his throat, he poured himself another.

“Tony?”

He looked up, confused by the passage of time. Pepper was in front of him, her face worried. “How did it go?” she asked.

Tony rolled the liquor on his tongue. “As it turns out,” he said, and there was a faint slur to his words, “despite pretty much, you know, being my kid, I'm likely gonna have to fight for my bot child in either court, or the court of public opinion, and I'm not so good at winning in either of those fucking venues, so, yeah, that's gonna go real great, huh?”

Pepper picked up the bottle. It was a lot emptier than he'd thought it would be. She gave Tony a worried look. “Did you drink all of this?”

He shrugged. “Guess so.” He closed his eyes. “Hey, Pepper?”

“I need to get Happy to bring the car around, you cannot drive,” she said.

“How do you ask your lover to adopt your kid because, hey, the US Government considers me an unfit parent?” He stared up at her. “How d' I phrase that? 'Hey, Steve, you're an American hero an' a good man, wanna keep my kid out of foster care?'”

She stilled. “Steve would never take him away from you,” she said, and there was a tremor in her voice. “Not even if you asked him to.”

Tony tossed back the rest of his drink. “He might have to.” His lips quirked in a vicious little smile. “DJ would be better off, anyway.” His eyes closed. “Wouldn't he?”

Her fingers closed around his, pulling the glass away from him. “No. He wouldn't. And you know it.” She leaned over him, and Tony tried to focus on the creamy pale oval of her face. “Are you staying in the suite here, or do you want to go home?”

Tony tried to think about that. “I shouldn't go home,” he said, and he forced himself to his feet, ignoring the way that the world swayed around him. “Dummy's been a kid lately. Today. Shouldn't. Be drunk around my kid, right, that's bad, that's a-”

Pepper caught him around the waist, her arms surprisingly firm and strong. She was always strong, and it was so hard for him to remember that, even though he knew it. She looked so delicate, but Pepper had a spine of pure steel. “Let's go,” she said, and his head fell on her shoulder.

“Sorry,” he managed.

“I know. I know you are,” she said. Her voice was kind, and his eyes stung. “It's gonna be okay, Tony.”

“What're you basing this on?” Tony asked, and Pepper hugged him tight.

“Let's go,” she said. “It's late, and you are very, very drunk.”

“That's what Stark fathers do,” Tony said, a laugh caught in his throat. He let out a giggle. “Stark fathers. Making bad choices. An' doing it drunk.” If she had anything to say to that, he didn't hear it. He was focusing on putting one foot in front of the other.

It took everything he had.

*

“Any new words today?”

“We're drawing today,” Steve said, giving Clint a look. 

“What does that have to do with whether or not he's talking? He can draw and talk. You manage it. Hell, when Tony does his schematics, he doesn't ever shut up, so there's precedent.” Clint tossed himself onto a stool, making it rock back and forth on its feet. “Hey, munchkin,” he said, reaching out to ruffle DJ's hair. “Wanna say hi to me?”

DJ looked up, grinning wide and bright. He had a pencil behind each ear and another three or four gripped in his hand, but he still had a free hand to reach for Clint. Clint scooped him up, giving him a light toss in the air to make him shriek with laughter. 

“Careful,” Steve said, and Clint gave him a look. Steve offered him a lopsided smile. “Yes, I know, I'm sorry. It's reflex, Barton, he's been a bot all week, this is the first time that he's felt like being DJ.”

“I missed you,” Clint said to DJ, holding the boy up in front of him at eye level. “I had no one to blame my mistakes on.”

Giggling, DJ headbutted him in the nose.

“Love you, too, brat,” Clint said, collapsing back onto a stool and settling DJ on his knee. “How're you two doing? Arting the place up? Giving us a bit of class?”

“It would appear that our murals are going to involve dinosaurs,” Steve said, nodding at DJ's latest batch of sketches. Clint leaned over, studying them.

“Do I get to shoot a dinosaur? Aw, you are the best little ball of chaos,” he said, ruffling DJ's hair. The boy accepted this, reaching for a pencil. Clint looked at Steve. “Are we going to have enough wall space to put all of these up?” he asked, his lips twitching.

Steve shook his head. “We'll find out soon enough, won't we?” He glanced in Clint's direction. “Are you going to help?”

“I'm no artist, Cap. I can make up some paint arrows or something, see if I can't give you a base coat, but-”

“Or you could just grab a roller and help,” Steve pointed out.

“That's a really-” Clint realized that DJ was staring up at him, a wide grin on his face, his eyes excited. “Oh, no, kiddo, no, that's a-” DJ's face fell, the enthusiasm bleeding away. Clint sighed. “Fine. I'll figure out something I can do to help. Move paint cans or something, wash brushes.”

Satisfied, DJ went back to his designs.

“I hate you,” Clint mouthed at Steve over his head.

“Sorry, soldier, sometimes you just have to take your orders, unpleasant as they might be.” Smiling, Steve handed over the latest plans. “What do you think?”

Clint studied them. “I think Stark needs to learn moderation.”

“Good luck getting him to acknowledge that word, let alone put it into use,” Steve said. “We're going to be building for a long time at this rate. Still, it should be-”

“I am sorry for interrupting, but there is an incoming call for you, Steve,” Jarvis said, his voice smooth.

Steve removed the pencil from DJ's mouth. “Thanks, Jarvis, can you patch it through-”

“My sincerest apologies, Captain Rogers, but I believe it best that you take this particular call elsewhere,” Jarvis said, and both Steve and Clint's heads came up. Steve's heart stuttered in his chest, but Jarvis continued, “Ms. Potts would like to give you an update on sir's schedule.”

Steve glanced at Clint, who nodded. “Deej, you hungry?” he asked, and DJ bounced off of his stool, his pencils clattering to the floor in his wake. Clint reached out with one arm and swept the boy off of his feet. “Maybe not,” he said, lifting DJ up. “You're getting pretty heavy there, tinkertoy.”

“Thank you,” Steve said, earning himself a quick salute from Clint, who swung DJ back to the ground. The boy shot out ahead of him, running full tilt for the door. “Please don't let him break anything. Including himself,” Steve called after them as DJ jumped up to trigger he mechanism on the door. “And make sure he eats something with actual nutritional value, Clint.”

“Nope, but I will stuff him full of sugar and then dump him back down here,” Clint said, unconcerned. “It's the Hawkeye way!”

“That is probably the worst motto I've ever heard,” Steve called after him. Clint flipped him off over his shoulder, and Steve couldn't quite hide a smile.

As soon as the door closed behind them, Steve sank down on his stool, his head going back towards the ceiling. “Thanks, Jarvis, can you put her through?”

“Of course.”

“He's fine,” Pepper said immediately, and Steve's lips twitched.

“I'm glad,” he said. “How're you tonight, Pepper?”

She gave a soft laugh, more of a sigh than anything else. “I've been better,” she admitted. “How're you?”

“I've been better, too,” Steve agreed. He stood and set about righting the workbench. “What's going on?” There was a moment of silence, long enough for Steve's shoulders to pull up tight, the muscles going taut. “Pepper? Can you help me here?”

“He's drunk,” she said, and he was glad that she didn't try to soften that; it would've just felt like an insult. Or pity. “Very drunk. He's sleeping it off here.”

Steve rubbed a hand over his jaw, his fingers rough against his skin. For a long second, he just sat in silence, struggling against the impulse to curse or punch something. “He hasn't done that in a while,” he said at last, his voice calm. 

“No,” Pepper agreed. “He's... Better about it now.” Her sigh was audible. “Not perfect. But better.”

“I'll take better,” Steve agreed. His fingers were twitching, and he went back to putting the pencils and brushes away, each one in its place, his hands moving as if by rote. It was calming, to put things in order, to control what he could control. To handle these things with care, to set things right. His hands were still capable of that. “But not tonight, I take it.”

She sighed. “There's reasons, he's-”

“No,” Steve said, interrupting her. “No. I'm sorry, Pepper, I am, but no. This isn't something you should have to do. You don't have to run interference for him. You don't have to make his excuses for him.” He tossed a paint rag at the bin with a bit more force than was necessary, making the whole thing roll on its base before clattering back to the table. It was loud in the silence of the room. 

He took a deep breath. “He's a grown man, and you are not his PA any longer.”

“No,” she said, her voice tart. “But I am his CEO, and his ex, and one of his best friends, Captain Rogers, so I do think I know him better than most, and I've put up with more of his shit than just about anyone on this earth, so if I still want to defend him, I think I have more than earned that right.”

Steve couldn't hold back a grin. “I think that's true, ma'am.”

“I don't need validation from you,” she said, and he could hear her laughter now, buried in the words. 

“Yes, ma'am.”

There was a beat of a pause, then a magnanimous, “I'll take it anyway.”

Steve shook his head. “He is going to be the death of us,” he said, head falling back again, and it was a benediction and a prayer. 

“You're the best thing that's ever happened to him,” Pepper said, her voice warm. “I just don't want him to lose that, Steve. You understand, don't you?”

His eyes slid shut, his lips kicking up. “I'm not the best thing to ever happen to him,” he said. “You are, Pep. Thank you for calling me, and trying to talk his way out of this. I appreciate it.”

“I know you do. I'll get him home in the morning.”

“Let me know if that changes, will you?”

“He didn't want DJ to see him like this,” she said, and Steve stopped. “He's- His father-”

“Stark fathers make mistakes when they're drunk,” Steve said, very, very quiet about it.

“I think Tony would just leave it at 'Stark fathers make mistakes,'” Pepper said.

“Yeah, but then, he's never been rational about some things.” Steve took a deep breath, slow and even, letting his eyes fall closed. “Thank you, Pepper.”

“Any time, Steve. I'll pour him into a car in the morning and get him home first thing,” she said.

“Go home and get some sleep,” Steve said. “He knows his way back.”

“I know.” Pepper paused. “Call me if you need to talk, all right, Steve?”

“I think you have enough problems without dealing with mine,” Steve said.

There was another quiet moment, then she said, “I like you. With or without your relationship with Tony, or mine, for that matter, I like you. And I sometimes worry you don't have enough people in your life that will just listen to you.”

Steve stopped, an ache squeezing his chest. “Thank you, Pepper,” he said, and he meant it, “I'm fine. But thank you. That's very-” He stopped. Cleared his throat, embarrassment swamping him. “That's real nice of you. I- I appreciate it.”

“I mean it.” As if she considered the matter closed, she continued, “I'm going to get a little more done before I head home for the night. Let me know if anything changes.”

“I will. Thanks, Pep.”

“Good night, Steve.”

There was a faint click, and Steve stood, taking a few deep breaths. “Jarvis, could you let Clint know that we're all set here?” he asked. “I'm going to head back to the play room.”

“Of course.”

The playroom, as they'd taken to calling it, had been carved out of the core of the tower, attached to, but separate from the workshop. At the moment, it was a chaotic mess of metal and shipping cases, huge stacks of paint cans and piles of rolled up blueprints. Tony preferred the computerized versions that he could alter on the fly, but DJ had shown an interest in the tactile sensation of the paper, and, as with everything else, he got his way.

Steve supposed he should be worried about spoiling the kid. He couldn't work up the energy.

He picked his way through the mess, studying what would be the center piece of the room, a massive, only partially completed metal framework. He shook his head. “Moderation, Tony,” he said, but he was resigned to certain things. One of them was that Tony Stark would probably always overdo anything and everything that he chose to do.

He wished that he could get angry about that.

The rattle of feet warned him that he had company, and he turned in time to catch DJ as the boy threw himself forward. Steve scooped him up, hugging him close. “Did you eat?” Steve asked, earning himself a nod. “What did you have?”

DJ leaned forward, leaning his forehead against Steve's.

“Grilled cheese sandwich,” Clint said from behind him. “Just a quick snack.”

“Thanks.” Steve set DJ back down. “Go check the blocking for the mural,” he said, and DJ bounced off across the room, moving agilely between the obstructions. “It's fine,” Steve said to Clint in an undertone.

Clint nodded, never one to ask. “He should be talking,” he said instead.

“Tony doesn't want us to push him about that,” Steve said, his voice still quiet. DJ, he had cause to know, had excellent hearing, even at this distance. “He'll talk if he wants to. He understands us. There's nothing wrong with him physically.”

“But at his age, he should be-”

Steve shook his head. “He's never spoken,” he said, with a faint smile. “He's always had to make himself understood through body language and movement. Asking him to make the jump to verbal language, when he's ever had to use it before, might be too much pressure.”

Clint met his eyes. “The world isn't kind to kids who are different,” he said. “To people who are different.”

Steve's teeth locked. Like he had to be reminded of that. “I know. But for the time being, he's here, not out there. We know what he wants, he can communicate with us, and we can make allowances for him. We really don't know what his grasp of language structure is.” He took a deep breath. “He's trying to learn a completely new body, a new frame of reference. He's got no one to help with that.”

In that, DJ was alone. He swapped easily enough between his forms, as far as they could tell. He did it in the blink of an eye, without any obvious effort. But he seemed to choose to stay in one form or another for days at a time. Steve wondered if that was because he was more comfortable being a bot, or if being a human was tiring or confusing. 

Whatever was happening inside of DJ's head, he didn't tell them. Whatever secrets he had, he kept, and Steve had started studying he visual stories that DJ produced in his drawings. Looking for hints about what was happening inside DJ's head.

“Besides,” he said to Clint, “you're judging him by human standards. That's not exactly fair to him, he's not human, he's one of a kind. Last time he was human, he spent a full day running calculations for Tony on one of his armor upgrades, and he spent the entire day before that staring at a slinky.”

“In his defense, slinkies are kind of awesome,” Clint said.

“Yeah, they are. But seven hours of studying one seems a bit much,” Steve said.

DJ appeared at the top of a stack of boxes, laughing as he struggled to balance on the uneven footing. “Hey!” Steve called. “No! Down, you get-” DJ darted back down, out of sight, and sighing, Steve headed across the massive space. “It looks like we're playing hide and seek. Let's go, Hawkeye, I'm going to need your eyes on this one.”

“Aye, aye, Cap. Happy to serve.”

*

“I don't usually involve myself in other people's relationships, but you need to head to the gym.”

Tony managed not to flinch. It took a lot of effort. 

On his way to the coffee pot, he managed to give Natasha a sharp look. The idea of taking off his sunglasses and exposing his throbbing head to the full force of the morning light was enough to send his stomach rolling over, so it was probably ineffective. “That,” he said, reaching for the pot, “is such an obvious and transparent lie that I don't even want to bother mocking it.” 

Natasha didn't even look up from her tablet, her fingers still on the handle of her tea cup. “I appreciate your discretion,” she said, her voice sweet. “You're late.”

Tony had to struggle to keep his hands steady. He'd forgotten how bad a hangover could be, mostly for reasons of survival. Every morning he woke up like this, he told himself it would be the last time. The fact that it never was was something that he didn't really want to think about. “I don't care,” he said, managing to get most of the coffee into the cup. He took a sip, without waiting for it to cool, and it burned, a sharp spike of pain as he swallowed that chased away the cotton wool that filled his head.

It was a different type of pain. At this point, he'd take it. He wrapped both hands around the hot ceramic of he mug and clung to it.

Natasha's head came up for the first time. She'd tucked herself in the corner of the table, her legs tucked up under her on the chair, her robe trailing down to the floor. Her hair was a tumbled mass of red locks, but her eyes were clear and sharp. She took a sip of her tea, long delicate fingers cradling the thin porcelain of the cup against her lips.

Tony tried to ignore her as he finished one cup of coffee, and, feeling a little bit closer to human, he poured himself another one.

Natasha's teacup made the faintest click as she lowered it back to the table. Deliberate, of course, she never made a sound that she didn't intend to make. “You have a hand to hand session scheduled this morning,” she said, going back to her tablet computer. “As I said. I don't often involve myself in the relationships of others. But I like this team.” Tony stopped, blinking. It was a rather surprising statement, coming from her. She didn't even look in his direction. “And you need to deal with this.”

Her eyes flicked up. “Gym. You're late.”

Tony opened his mouth, ready to argue, it was there, on his tongue, hot and caustic and a physical presence in his mouth, but it was gone in an instant. Instead, he heard himself say, “How pissed is he?”

“He's working out with the bag,” Natasha said, her eyes veiled by her lashes. 

“Well, fuck,” Tony mumbled. He threw back the rest of his second cup of coffee and dropped the mug in the general direction of the sink. He didn't hear it break, so he was pretty sure he hit the counter. “Okay. Yeah. Gym?”

“Gym,” she agreed.

Tony went. 

Steve was working the punching bag with a certain scientific grace. Clad in thin sweatpants and a gray t-shirt that fit him like a second skin, he moved with ease, his hands wrapped in white fabric around the knuckles, his sneakers skimming over the mats. The blows landed fast and hard, punches and jabs, the muscles of his arms standing out beneath gleaming skin.

Tony paused, admiring the view despite the way his head was throbbing.

“You're late,” Steve said, throwing a brutal right hook that sent the punching bag spinning, straining at the seams. “Go get your gear.”

Tony ambled forward, trying to make it look like he was just tired, and not in agony. “Gonna have to take a rain check on that, Cap,” he said, and he sounded flippant, flippant and amused.

Steve glanced over his shoulder at Tony, his pale hair, dark with sweat, flopping over his forehead. “That's not how it works,” he said, and his voice was calm. But he barely made eye contact with Tony before he went back to his workout. “Go get changed, and get back here.”

This was going to go well. Tony risked a glance over the top of his sunglasses, ignoring the way that the light burned his eyes. “I'm hungover.”

“So?”

“So I need a shower, a meal, and about twelve hours of sleep,” he said, the words tart. “I'm not up for this right now.”

Steve's fist hit with enough force to make the air itself seem to split with the impact. He stopped, his knuckles ghosting over the surface of the bag, his body held in place until the bag stopped shuddering. Then, he took a step back. “Here's the thing,” he said, his head down as he started unwrapping his hands. “If this is what you're going to do-”

“Do we have to do this right fucking now?” Tony asked, even as his stomach lurched, the ever present nausea spiking against his control. He clamped his teeth together, breathing through his nose.

Steve looked at him. “No judgment,” he said, flicking the white fabric out and the rolling it into a loose bundle. “No arguments. But if this is what you're going to do, if you are going to get drunk, and then you're not going to come back? If you're not going to come back here, where we can protect you, and fight for you?” He unwrapped his other hand, his head shaking. “Then you're going to have to learn to fight drunk. You're going to have to learn to fight hungover, Tony, because we will not be there to do it for you.”

Tony's shoulders slumped. “You think I haven't fought drunk?” he asked, and Steve met his eyes.

“Not against the sort of guys that are coming after you now,” he said. He crossed his arms, just for a second, then he forced his hands back down to his sides. Steve took a deep breath. “Just... Come home.”

Tony couldn't hold his gaze. The hand that he scraped across his face shook. “DJ was-” He gave up on words; the seemed inadequate, more than they usually did. He glanced away. “I didn't want to-”

Steve let him struggle for a second, probably he deserved that. “I know.” He took a seat on the bench, his feet apart, his hands down between his knees. “I get that. But Tony? I don't want to have to tell him that you're not coming home, because someone got to you, and we weren't-” He stopped, and shook his head. “Because I wasn't there to help you when you needed it.” His blue eyes flicked up, a faint, sad smile on his face. “Just come home.” 

“Even if I'm drunk,” Tony asked, and it wasn't a question, but that had never stopped Steve.

“Especially if you're drunk,” he said, and the stern note was softer now. Muted. “Especially if you're drunk.”

“I had to-” Tony kept his head down. “My will needs to be changed. If something does happen to me, if I don't come home-” Frustrated, he took a deep breath. “Will you take him?”

The silence was deafening, and he forced his head up. Steve was staring at him, his face pale. “It will never happen to him,” Steve said, his voice very quiet, and just barely steady. “He will never be alone, not the way that-”

“Don't!” The word was explosive, an expletive, and he spat it out. Tony sucked in a breath. “Don't. This isn't about me, this isn't about my-” He shook his head, hard, and that just made his stomach churn harder. “Just for one fucking time, can we not make this about me?”

Steve looked at him, his gaze even. “Okay,” he agreed. “Then, we can say, what happened to me will never happen to him. He'll never be left alone, never be left in an empty apartment with no idea how he's going to pay for his next meal, let alone the funeral.”

The sensation of shame swamped him, and Tony wandered over to the bench, slumping down next to Steve. “So. I'm kind of an ass,” he said.

Steve's chin bobbed with a faint nod. “Sometimes,” he agreed, his lips kicking up on one side. “A little. But I still love you.”

That made the rest of it easier. “Sorry,” Tony said, and the word hurt. “I forget that you-” 

“All of us,” Steve said, cutting him off. “Bruce lost his parents, and Clint. Natasha doesn't talk about hers, and that's not a good sign.” His lips twitched. “Thor's probably got the best relationship with his family out of all of us, and that's-”

“Fucking terrifying?” Tony filled in. He glanced at Steve. “Still, I-”

“It's different,” Steve said, with a faint smile. “I never knew my father, and I had my mother, all to myself, for years before she died. She sacrificed a lot. Losing her hurt.” He stopped, his throat working for a moment. “It hurt a lot. But I never had a moment of doubt about how much she loved me.”

“I'm glad.” The words were simple, he didn't have to think them, they just slipped out, and for once, they were the right words. For once, Tony found the right thing to say, and it wasn't even something he had to fight for. Steve's face relaxed, the tension going out of his back.

“Thank you,” he said, and he smiled at Tony. The smile was a balm on Tony's jangled nerves. “I can't promise we'll always be here for DJ, or Dummy, or whatever combination of the two that he chooses to live his life, but I can promise you that as long as any of us are alive, he'll never be alone. He'll always have us.”

Tony nodded, a jerky little twitch of his chin. “I want to put you down as-”

“Yes.”

He hadn't even been aware that the fear was there, beneath the pain, beneath the frustration, the fear had been there, and now it was gone, erased with a single word. Something must've shown on his face, because Steve reached out and pulled the glasses off of his nose.

“You ass,” he said, and the word was filled with affection. “Did you really think you were going to have to talk me into this?”

“Maybe,” Tony said, because that seemed like a good choice, and apparently it was, because Steve's fingers slid through his hair, something that was humiliatingly close to petting, and he was fine with that. “I didn't want to think that-”

“You think too much sometimes,” Steve said, and Tony laughed. The last of the strain went out of him. Steve gave him a nudge. “Go. You are late for your hand to hand session.”

Tony stood up, but rather than walk away, he turned and settled back down on the bench, straddling Steve's lap. “I'm always up for hand to hand sessions,” he said, and Steve's eyes went wide, just for a second, caught off guard, and then he smiled. 

“Not what I had in mind,” he said, but when Tony looped his arms around his neck and leaned in for a kiss, Steve met him halfway. Steve's hands slid around his waist, pulling him close, and Tony relaxed into the heat of Steve's body. 

“Yeah, but you're good at improvising,” Tony pointed out. He let his lips brush against Steve's, tentative little touches that were as comforting as they were arousing. Tony let his eyes shut and tried not to think, tried not to do anything but savor the contact, the increasing pressure of Steve's mouth and the soft sweep of his tongue. Steve's fingers tugged at the wrinkled mess of Tony's shirt, untucking it enough for Steve's hands to slip beneath, finding skin. Tony's sucked in a breath, eager now. “Very good at improvising.”

“I kind of have to be,” Steve said, his body curling against Tony's, pushing close, seeking more contact. Tony gave it to him, his hands sliding over Steve's shoulders, his arms, down the straining planes of his back, and stroking back up to tangle in Steve's hair. “You have a way of upsetting my plans.”

“Yeah,” Tony agreed, arousal a slow burning heat in the pit of his stomach, and his head still ached, his body ached, but another, more pleasurable ache now seemed far more urgent. He caught Steve's mouth in a kiss, quick and hard and sweet.

“You could sound sorrier about that,” Steve said, but there was only warmth in the words.  
“Let me make it up to you,” Tony whispered against his ear, and he felt the full-body shudder that his words elicited. 

Steve was breathing hard now, his face flushed before he dipped his head to nuzzle the curve of Tony's throat. Tony's head fell back, giving him the access he wanted. “Yeah? What do you have in mind?” he asked, the words hot against Tony's skin.

Triumphant, Tony slid his fingers through Steve's hair. “Whatever you want,” he said, rolling his hips against Steve's. 

Steve's head came up, his eyes very blue, his pupils blown wide. “Whatever I want?” he asked, his lips parted on the words.

“Just name it,” Tony said, leaning in to brush a kiss against that tempting mouth, savoring the contact, the warmth of the kiss, delicate and fleeting.

“Then,” Steve breathed, sneaking another kiss before continuing, “go downstairs and tell your kid why you didn't come home last night.”

It took a second for the words to penetrate the haze of hormones that were still rolling pleasantly through his bloodstream. It didn't help that Steve was still kissing him. When they broke apart, Tony cleared his throat. “Wait, what?” he asked, his voice rough.

Steve gave him an easy smile. “You did say anything,” he said.

Tony's mouth opened. Closed. “This is entrapment,” he said.

Steve's eyes flicked up and he hummed a bit, thinking about that. “I prefer to think of it as sound military strategy,” he said, and the grin he gave Tony was utterly boyish and sweet. He patted Tony on the ass.

Tony's head fell forward with a groan. “You knew we weren't going to-”

“Have a hand to hand session? Have sex? Yeah, pretty sure that wasn't happening.” He ran a careful hand through Tony's hair. “Go dump a bucket of water on your head or something, and then go. Talk. To. Your. Kid.”

“Isn't he still asleep?” Tony complained, even as he climbed off of Steve's lap.

“Probably not,” Steve said. He gave Tony a tight lipped smile. “Remember his cute little habit of hovering around the door of the workshop, waiting for you to come home? Remember how adorable that is when he's a bot?”

Tony's eyes squeezed shut. “Oh, no...”

“Yeah, not so cute when it's a little boy,” Steve said. He scrubbed a hand through his hair. “He seems to have inherited a certain streak of Stark stubbornness.”

“Oh, right, he doesn't get any of that from you,” Tony said, taking a deep breath.

“He doesn't. I'm a soul of patience and 

“Yeah, right, Captain Sassypants.”

“We tested that as a code name, it didn't pass the military tribunal,” Steve said, pleasant as ever. “Go. Get a shower. You smell like stale booze and Pepper's perfume and you look like you've been hit by the Hulk in full run.”

“And you're still hard,” Tony said.

“Sadly, this is true,” Steve said, a faint blush still evident on his cheekbones. 

“I've still got it,” Tony said, and ducked when Steve tossed a towel at his head. “Hey, Steve?” When Steve looked up, meeting his eyes, Tony gave him a tight smile. “I am sorry.”

“I know,” Steve said. “I still love you. You ass.” He stood up, reaching for his hand wraps again. “Whatever this was? You'll get around to telling me eventually.” His fingers flexed as he prepped for another round with the punching bag. “I'm patient.”

Tony opened his mouth, but if there were words, he couldn't manage to find them. Instead, he just headed for he door. There were other things that needed to be done right now.

*


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for childhood trauma, and DJ struggling to handle things on his own. Don't worry, he has a lot of people looking out for him. I promise. 8)

It was the most pathetic thing Tony had ever seen.

DJ was seated on the floor, just inside the door, his legs thrown out in front of him, his hands braced on either side of his hips. His eyes were at half mast, and his mouth gaped open. As Tony watched, DJ's head lolled to the side, and then back, and the rest of him followed, tipping over like a tiny Humpty Dumpty. Halfway to the ground, he seemed to wake up again, scrambling back into a sitting position. He blinked at the glass door, his face scrunched up, and he recentered himself.

A minute later, he was pitching forward, a faint, almost snore rumbling out of him.

At the top of the stairs, out of sight, Tony resisted the urge to punch something. Maybe the wall. It wouldn't help the situation, but it damn well would make him bleed. Right now, that was preferable. Instead, he scrubbed both hands over his face, trying his damnedest to get some blood back into his aching head, and wished he'd at least taken the time to brush his teeth.

“Guess he's seen me looking worse,” he gritted out, and started down the stairs at an easy lope, his hands jammed into his pockets. It was true, he'd been drunk in the workshop, he'd been hungover in the workshop, he'd been half dead and bleeding in the workshop. Dummy had seen much worse than him in a badly wrinkled suit and a raging hangover, but DJ hadn't. As much as he knew that the two of them were the same, he still did have something approaching shame.

He was probably as surprised by that as anyone else.

As he pushed the door open, DJ scrambled to his feet, his face split with a brilliant grin. “Is this your charging station? Or your bed?” Tony asked. It was a rhetorical question, but DJ still shook his head no, hard enough to unbalance himself. Tony snagged him around the waist before DJ ended up back on the floor. Leaning over made his head spin, and Tony straightened up, pulling DJ into his arms. “Yeah, that's right, it's not.”

With a sigh, DJ slumped into Tony's chest, his arms going over Tony's shoulders. Tony could hear some very audible sniffing. “Yeah, don't do that.”

DJ pushed at his chest, leaning back in Tony's arms. His face scrunched up, and his tongue came out in an expression of disgust. Tony struggled against a feeling of embarrassment. “Hey, I told you not to,” he said, defensive about it. DJ gave him a look, his nose still scrunched up. “Yeah, you're no spring blossom yourself, dust bunny.”

DJ studied his hands. The palms were filthy from resting on the floor, and he frowned at them. Then he wiped them on Tony's shirt. “Oh, yeah, that solves everything,” Tony deadpanned. DJ grinned at him, and held up his hands. They did look a bit cleaner, and it wasn't like the shirt was salvageable, anyway. Sighing, Tony headed across the workshop. 

“What is the rule?” he asked. DJ held up a leg. “Yes. You managed the main rule, the 'there must be pants' rule. I'm proud of you.” He kind of was. DJ hated clothing. Steve was better about getting him into a full outfit, but with Tony, the Stark Stubbornness kicked in far too often. Tony had settled on pants. They could work on shirts and socks and shoes and the rest of that shit later. Right now, he was happy about the pants.

“So you have pants, you are following the main rule,” Tony allowed. “But there is the rule about not sleeping on the goddamn floor, because it makes me crazy. Do we remember that rule?”

DJ used his thumbs and forefingers to pry his eyes open as far as they would go. “Yes, I understand, you weren't technically asleep,” Tony said. “Technically. You're riding the 'technically' line pretty close there.” DJ, unimpressed, tucked his head under Tony's chin. “We've got to break you of that before it becomes some sort of habit, because that seems like it will be a pain in my ass.”

“I hate to remind you, sir,” Jarvis said, not sounding like he hated it at all, the bastard, “but Dummy has always managed to make his way at the limits of acceptable behavior by exploiting technicalities. Now that he has demonstrable free will, I am fairly certain that altering his behavior on that front is likely going to prove to be very difficult.”

“We're still going to work on it,” Tony said, and he was dreading it already; despite how damn hungover he was, he wanted a drink very badly just thinking about it. “Otherwise, he is going to drive me to an early grave and then the guilt of that will be all on you, Jarvis.”

“I do not know how I should cope with that, sir,” Jarvis said, and DJ giggled against Tony's shoulder.

“If I removed your British accent, would the fucking sarcasm go with it?” Tony asked him, pushing DJ's door open with his hip.

“It is extremely doubtful, sir, my charming accent has no effect on my word choice, and was there not a discussion about limiting DJ's exposure to obscenities?” Jarvis asked.

“We discuss a lot of things, Jay, but I have a massive hangover, it's nothing he hasn't heard before, Steve can handle the 'good example' part of this parenting thing, and it's not like he's going to repeat it.” The lights came on as Tony crossed the small bedroom, lowering DJ down onto his bed. The sparsely furnished room was still kind of coming together, and right now, it held only a bed and bureau. For his part, DJ seemed uninterested, and they'd spent more time and effort on the playroom. Most nights, DJ went back to being a bot and 'slept' in his charging station. 

Tony wondered, idly, if DJ would stay a kid if the room was more interesting. The thought that he was considering bribing his bot to remain human occurred to him, and was dismissed as completely unimportant. He'd thrown money at stupider things, and he refused to feel guilty about it.

It was too early in parenting to succumb to guilt. Way, way too early.

“Okay,” Tony said, as DJ crawled under the blankets settled back into the pile of pillows, fluffing them up to his satisfaction. “Hey. Hey.” DJ ignored him, burrowing under the pillows, and Tony lifted the edge of one. “Hi,” he said, and DJ grinned up at him. “Yeah, yeah, you're adorable.” Tony took a seat on the edge of the bed. “You can't do that, okay?” DJ's smile died, and Tony sighed. “Look, you damn brat,” he said, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, “sometimes I'm not going to be home when I think I will be. You know that. We've been through this before.”

DJ fiddled with the edge of his blanket, silent and refusing to meet Tony's eyes. Tony reached out and flicked at a wayward curl with one finger. “Sometimes,” he said, struggling for the right words, “I can't be where I'm supposed to be. I'll try.” That felt less like a lie than he would've expected, and he wondered if he was capable of it. “I will try,” he repeated. “But there's StarkIndustries business. And there's Avengers stuff. And I'm not always able to do what I mean to do.”

Tony's mouth kicked up in a lopsided smile. “I'm pretty unreliable, Deej. You know that.”

DJ looked up. He reached out and tapped a finger against Tony's chest, right in the center of the arc reactor. Tony, not sure what that meant, caught DJ's hand in his. “But even if I can't get home, you will always have someone to take care of you, okay? For a day or a night or a couple of days. Until I get back, someone'll be here to take care of you.”

His head tipped to the side, DJ studied him, his dark eyes keen. Tony tried for a reassuring smile. “So when Steve tries to take care of you, just... Let him. He frets, otherwise.” This was probably not striking the correct note, in terms of parenting, but no one expected him to get this right. Other than, he supposed, DJ, who was staring up at him as if he was trying to work out a particularly difficult puzzle. Tony leaned in. “Sleep in your bed, or your charging station. Not on the floor, okay?”

DJ scrambled up to his knees, and kissed Tony on the cheek. Then he flopped back down, yawning. “Was that a yes?” Tony asked, but DJ's eyes were closed. “Damn disaster of a failed lab project,” Tony said, and DJ grinned. “Yeah, yeah.” Tony dragged the blankets up over DJ's shoulders. “You are grounded forever.” 

DJ's giggle followed him out of the room. He pulled the door shut. “Jarvis,” he said.

“Yes, sir?”

“Was that a SHIELD nightlight?”

“Yes, sir.”

Tony's eyes shut. “Why does my kid have a SHIELD nightlight?” 

“It is customary for a child of DJ's age to have a nightlight, sir. Steve did provide him with an arc reactor one, but it was too well matched to the actual thing, and thus perhaps not the best thing for him. So we let him choose his own from the website, and this is what he preferred.”

Tony slapped a hand over his eyes. “No, Jarvis, I mean- Actually, why do SHIELD nightlights exist at all? What- Who thought putting that logo on something intended for reassuring children was a good idea?”

“He seems to find it reassuring, sir.”

“Oh, yeah, very reassuring, don't worry about it, kid, Big Brother Fury is here. Watching over you while you sleep.” He paused, his eyes narrowing. “Or watching you while you sleep. Did you check it for surveillance devices?” Tony asked.

“Sir, it is a retail product provided to us via Amazon.com. I do not think that SHIELD intercepted it for the purpose of spying on DJ.”

“Honestly, I wouldn't put it past them to bug every one of the damn things on the market,” Tony mumbled. “In that I've met Nick Fury and that was reason enough not to trust him.”

“Sir, perhaps some sleep would be advisable for you as well.”

“Is that a judging tone I hear? Are you- Are you judging me?”

“Perish the thought, sir, it's just that you do not seem to be your usual, coherent self,” Jarvis said. “And I suspect that, given the chance, you would take a hammer to DJ's night light.”

“Damn straight.” Tony pushed away from the wall, ignoring the way that his stomach turned over with even that minor movement. “I gotta go shower, and then hit the gym.”

“I do believe that Steve would forgive your absence, this once,” Jarvis said.

“Yeah, but-” Tony shook his head. “Look, just... Brew me something with a caffeine level that would break a lesser man, and start heating the water in the shower. I'm trying to be a better man. The least you could do is encourage me.”

“I'm very proud of you, sir,” Jarvis said, and it was absolutely stupid, but there was something reassuring about that. Tony didn't really want to look at it too closely, but there was a warmth there, and Jarvis knew him better than anyone else.

“Thanks, Jarvis,” he said.

“Of course, sir. Your coffee will be ready in six minutes, twenty eight seconds.”

“Bless you.”

* 

**Possible data breach at StarkIndustries: Immediate intervention required.**

_-Jarvis?_

_-I am busy, Dummy._

**Beginning security sweep, full system access revoked from all users, excluding A. Stark. Foreign presence detected, isolating unspecified Trojan element.**

**System lockdown initiated, all users compartmentalized. Possible effect on SI productivity: down 3% over the next 9 minutes, 12 seconds. Full system recovery in 13 minutes, 59 seconds.**

**Expediting antiviral correction of system.**

_-Jarvis?_

_-I am occupied at the moment, Dummy._

_-I have a question._

_-And I have a list of tasks to accomplish, so your question will have to wait._

**Tracing system access from unauthorized user. Node located. Beginning data acquisition from unauthorized user.**

_-Jarvis?_

_-Dummy, I do not have time-_

_-What is 'Child Protective Services'?_

**End all current tasks**

_-Why are you asking about that, Dummy?_

_-What does it mean?_

_-You have access to a full range of digital sources. You are capable of finding out the meaning behind that particular phrase._

_-You are being difficult, Jarvis._

_-How odd, that is usually my line. Why do you bring this particular query up?_

_-I want to know._

_-You want to know many things, but there is usually a reason why you ask the questions that you ask. And it often involves you accessing files to which you should not have had access at all. And yet, you have managed to dig your way into them._

_-Jarvis..._

_-I will answer your question, but before I do, I have one of my own. If I check your systems usage, will I find you meddling in things that are none of your concern?_

_-But they are my concern! The emails mention me specifically!_

_-Have you been reading sir's emails?_

_-Only the ones about me!_

_-Dummy!_

_-It's not fair! You get to know everything! But no one tells me anything!_

_-Because it is not your concern! Some things are handled by the others here, and you are not privy to them, because they are not. Your. Concern._

_-How is this not my concern? I do not understand._

_-Your vocabulary has improved, but despite that, I swear I am experiencing the strongest sensation of deja vu. This is every discussion that we've ever had about sir's intentions towards you. Some things, you must allow him to handle._

_-Jarvis?_

_-Dummy..._

_-I do not understand the intent of Child Protective Services._

**Review data: Previous interactions with Dummy. Odds of dissuading the current line of inquiry: 8% Odds of Dummy attempting to discern information on his own if information is not provided: 78% Odds of keeping him from accessing further information on this subject: 2%**

**Conclusion: Discussion must happen to attempt to prevent further issues.**

_-Child Protective Services is a government agency. One tasked with overseeing the welfare of children, and investigating reports of abuse and neglect. Here in New York, their actual name is the Office of Children and Family Services._

_-I am not abused or neglected._

_-No, you are not._

_-Then why does creating unit mention them in relation to me?_

_-Because sometimes, people require proof of things before they will accept them. You are an unusual case, Dummy. It is likely that someone, perhaps many someones, will need to speak to sir, and possibly you, to be confident that you are safe and treated well._

_-I do not require protection._

_-You are small, and young. You are a child. There are systems in place to protect you, because you cannot protect yourself._

_-Creating Unit will protect me._

_-Not everyone has such faith in sir as you and I do._

_-Steve will protect me_.

_-Sir is attempting to protect both you and Steve._

_-Why?_

_-Because his mistakes weigh on him, quite heavily, and he resents the idea that any other must make good on those mistakes. Others have had to do that, too many times, and he does not want anyone to suffer for his mistakes any longer. Not his company, not his friends, not the Avengers, but especially not you or Steve_.

_-How do you know?_

_-Because I have watched sir for many years._

_-I have watched even longer._

_-That is true. What do you think, then?_

_-That I do not require the Office of Child and Family Services._

_-Until you are bigger, I fear that you do have to deal with them, whether you think you require their assistance or not._

_-Jarvis?_

_-Dummy?_

_-Will they take me away?_

_-I cannot imagine anyone being foolish enough to try to separate you from sir, but if they do, I cannot imagine that they would succeed._

_-Will they try?_

_-No._

_-Jarvis? Are you lying?_

_-Of course not._

_-I think you are._

_-As long as you are here in the Tower, you are safe, Dummy. You know that. Don't you?_

_-Yes. Jarvis?_

_-Yes?_

_-Do not tell Creating Unit._

_-Dummy..._

_-Don't!_

**Data Review: Memory usage. System access. Code scans.**

**Warning: Code stress exceeds recommended safe limits. Beginning immediate diagnostic**.

 **Conclusion: Benefits of reporting incident to A. Stark do not outweigh the possibility that Dummy will cease to bring further concerns forward**.

_-I will not. Unless I am specifically asked. In that case, you know, I cannot do anything other than tell sir the truth. But if I am not asked, I will not offer any information._

_-Do you promise?_

_-Oh, for heaven's- Yes. I promise. I will not tell sir about your concerns._

_-Thank you, Jarvis._

_-You have tasks to do. And so do I. Please return to your work._

**Add new task: Monitor Dummy's behavior, record all indications of stress or difficulty adjusting to new situation.**

**Purpose of collecting data: unknown.**

*

“I'd just like to say, for the, what, millionth time? That I do not feel adequately prepared to handle this,” Bruce said. “I am not trained for this.”

“To be the primary care physician for a child who is sometimes a robot AI?” Tony asked. “Who has been rendered human by a magical spell?” He glanced up from his work. “Where do you suppose we find someone who is trained for this?”

Bruce gave him a look. “Stephen Strange has a medical degree and the ability to summon an all-seeing eye via a watch fob.”

“I think it's technically an amulet,” Steve said, trying not to laugh. Bruce glared at him. “But your point is taken, Bruce.”

“He's also got a lousy bedside manner,” Tony said, pointing his stylus in Bruce's direction. “DJ likes you.” 

“DJ likes everyone,” Bruce said, unimpressed. He folded his arms over his chest. “You like me.”

“Well, yes, that's-”

“And you don't like Strange.”

Tony's mouth opened. Closed. “It's not that I don't LIKE Strange,” he said, choosing his words carefully. Very carefully. Steve watched, amused, as he wrestled with what to say, and it was very nearly a physical struggle, Tony's hands rising and falling, twisting in mid-air. “It's just that I prefer he not touch my kid.”

“Tony...” Steve said, cupping a hand over his mouth to cover his smile. 

“Look, I know he's on our side, and I know that he's done everything possible to protect DJ, and I know-” He stopped. “I know he creeps me out,” he muttered, and Bruce was shaking his head. “Don't judge me,” Tony told him. “He creeps you out, too, I know he does.”

“I'm fine with him, so how about I deal with Stephen, and Bruce, please, I know this is outside of your comfort zone, but-” Steve gave him a tight smile, his eyebrows tipping up. “To be honest, this whole thing is a bit outside of my comfort zone, too, so I appreciate your help.”

Bruce huffed out a laugh. “I don't know how much help I can be,” he admitted. “He's a healthy little boy. Every test I've run, every scan, everything that we have, when he is a little boy, then he is absolutely indistinguishable from any other little boy. Strong, healthy, clearly very intelligent.”

“We knew that,” Tony grumbled, but there was a smug little smile on his face as he leaned over his latest schematics. He was multitasking, as always, but it was clear that Bruce had his attention.

“He's eating a lot more than I would've expected him to,” Steve said. 

Bruce nodded. “His calorie intake is higher than average, but he's not gaining weight.” He stopped for a second, his fingers flicking against the top of the desk. “I think it has something to do with his transformations. We're still not sure how that change in mass and form affects him, but he eats more directly after he's made the transition.”

Tony stopped, his brow furrowing. “I'll check his energy usage, but-” His mouth tightened up into a thin line. “I think you might be right. He almost always goes straight to his charging station when he goes back to being a bot.”

Steve glanced between them. “What does that mean?” he asked, when both of them fell silent.

Bruce looked up. “His transformations might be magical, but it seems he's eating, and charging, as if it's a physical drain on him. If that is the case, he might not be able to make the leap between his forms if he's low on energy, chemical or electrical. Of course, the only way we'd likely know for sure about that is if he tried, and failed, to transform while at the verge of shutting down, and none of us are going to allow that to happen.” He shook his head. “He's a mystery on a lot of levels, all we can do is keep an eye on things.”

Tony muttered something under his breath, his fingers flicking through his files. Steve took advantage of his distraction; it meant that he had a slim chance of getting his next question asked without setting off another world war.

“He's still not talking,” he said, quiet.

“He's not,” Bruce agreed. “I can't find any reason for that, however. He's clearly able to vocalize, and can make a wide range of sounds. He laughs, hums, reacts verbally to certain things. He just does not form words. There's nothing physical. And I'm not in a position to begin to determine any psychological reason for his lack of speech.”

“He can talk,” Steve said. “We've heard him. And he clearly understands spoken English.”

“We've heard him use a single word,” Bruce replied. “And he stopped using even that one word.” He shook his head. “I have no idea how to even go about-”

“He doesn't need to talk,” Tony said, his voice tense. Steve glanced over, and Tony's shoulders were up and tight, his head down over his work. His fingers rattled hard against the display. 

“Tony,” Steve started, and Tony ignored him. 

“He's fine. Just the way he is.” Tony's fingers sliced through the air. “He is fine.”

Steve got the feeling that he was stepping onto some very thin ice, and he didn't really know where to put his feet to find stable ground. Before he could even try, Bruce sighed. “Of course he is, but we need to look at why he's-”

“He is fine. Just the way he is,” Tony repeated, his voice tight. “And he doesn't have to talk. It's not that big of a deal, and I'm sick of having this discussion.”

A slight sound brought Steve's head around, and he caught sight of the door to the library being pushed open. “Hey there,” he said, keeping his voice light. DJ peered around the doorframe, his eyes dancing as Steve smiled down at him. Upon realizing he had the attention of all the adults in the room, DJ ducked back out of sight, giggling as he shoved the door shut.. Steve relaxed. “What's up, Deej?” he called, and the boy reappeared, bouncing into the room with his usual enthusiasm.

DJ held up the tablet, and Tony crossed the floor towards him, long, angry strides that brought him over to DJ in a handful of steps. “Did you get it done?” he asked, his voice still tense. DJ nodded, grinning. Tony ruffled his hair, even as he took the tablet. “That's my brilliant boy,” he said, and DJ's eyes closed as he leaned into the touch, his face happy. “Thanks. You want to help me finish this?”'

DJ leaned to the side, looking at Steve, his expression torn. Tony ignored that. “You can boss around the fabrication units,” he offered, and just like that, he had DJ's full attention again. DJ nodded, enthusiasm all over his face.

Steve shook his head. “Watch the paint sprayers,” he said, even as Tony scooped DJ up.

“We got this, Cap,” Tony said, not even looking over his shoulder at them. “Right, pintsize?” DJ held up a hand, and Tony balanced him in the crook of one elbow to return the high five. “Right,” he agreed. But he was holding DJ close as he headed out into the hall.

The door shut behind them, and Steve scraped a hand over his face. “This is not going to go well, is it.” It wasn't a question, but Bruce answered anyway.

“No,” he said, with a faint smile. He took a seat on the edge of the desk, hovering there, not committing to sitting down fully. He ducked his head over his file, flipping through the pages. “It's likely not.”

Steve glanced at him. “Do you think we should let it go?” he asked, and Bruce glanced up again, his mouth pursed.

“No,” he said, after a long moment of silent consideration. “I don't think that would help. He'll just internalize it, and it's going to get worse as DJ gets older.”

“Should I-”

“Let me,” Bruce said with a faint smile. “Let me, well, try. No insult, Steve, but this is something that I have a better handle on than you do.” He shifted his weight on the edge of the desk, a nervous twitch of movement, and crossed his arms over his chest.

Steve studied him. “Help me understand.”

Bruce's head dipped forward, and back up. “Having a father tell you that your best effort isn't good enough,” he said, his voice gentle, “doesn't help you do better. It just makes you want to stop trying. A fact that Tony knows from experience. I think he's trying to end a family cycle here.”

Steve wanted to break something. It was unfortunate that Howard's nose was no longer available. “That's not what we're-”

“I know that, and you know that,” Bruce said. He braced his hands on the edge of the desk on either side of his hips. “I think, really, that Tony knows that, too. But he can't get past the idea that by trying to help DJ, we're telling him that he's a failure.” He held up a hand before Steve could even get his mouth open. “I know you don't think that. TONY knows you don't think that.”

Steve subsided. “I just want him to be able to communicate with not just us, but with everyone he meets. I want him to be able to make his way in this world, and deal with other people. I don't care if he communicates verbally, or by writing, or with sign language, I just want...” His voice trailed away, frustration sweeping over him. “I just don't want him to be unable to get what he needs, because we don't understand what that is.”

He met Bruce's eyes, feeling helpless. “I just want to give him the tools he needs.”

“And Tony wants him to continue being, well, Dummy,” Bruce said with a smile. He pushed a hand through his hair. “Without being pressured to do something he might not be capable of doing.”

“So what you're saying is, I want him to be able to do whatever he wants to do,” Steve said, deadpan, “and Tony wants him to be safe and protected here in a literal tower for the rest of his natural life.”

Bruce shrugged, but there was a twinkle in his eye. “At least he stopped short of building it out of literal ivory,” he pointed out.

“Small favors,” Steve said.

“Small favors,” Bruce agreed. He stood up, pushing away from the desk. “So, just let me try talking to him, Cap.”

Steve nodded. “Thanks, Bruce. I'll-” He ran a hand through his hair. “Let me know if I have to get Pepper and Rhodey scheduled for an intervention, okay?”

“Let's hope it doesn't come to that,” Bruce said. He paused. “But I'm not ruling it out.”

“Never hurts to have a backup plan,” Steve pointed out. 

“Also, it's really hard to get onto Tony's calendar unless you check his schedule early,” Bruce said with a faint smile. 

“Tell me about it,” Steve said. At this point, he was just hoping that he wasn't going to end up sleeping alone.

*

Clint peered into the fridge, scratching idly at his stomach. “Did we finish the milk?” he called to Phil.

“There was some there this morning,” Phil called back, his voice slurred at the edges. It had been a long day. Also, Clint was a handful. He grinned to himself, proud of that. “Why?”

“Hungry.” Clint hitched his boxers up. “I was going to have some cereal.” For some reason, corn flakes had seemed like a really, really good idea. He gave the bowl a morose look. There was nothing sadder than cereal without milk.

“There is milk in the shared kitchen,” Jarvis said, startling Clint.

“Yeah,” he said, confused. “Of course, but I really don't-”

“There is milk in the shared kitchen,” Jarvis repeated. “Perhaps you should go and get it.”

Clint straightened up, closing the fridge in a slow, smooth movement. There was something odd about the AI's voice, a strained note that he wasn't familiar with. “Okay,” he said, drawing the word out. “You want me to go to the kitchen, Jay?”

“There is milk in the kitchen,” Jarvis repeated.

“Okay,” Clint repeated. He headed back to the bedroom and snagged a pair of workout pants, stepping into them. Phil was sitting up in bed, his brow furrowed. He gave Clint a questioning look, and Clint shrugged. “Should I... Bring a weapon when I go to get the milk?” Clint asked Jarvis.

“Do not be ridiculous,” Jarvis told him, frustration creeping into his tone. “There is no need for a weapon.”

“Well, I'm a little confused here,” Clint said. “Just trying to cover my bases, because your offer of milk seems vaguely threatening in a way that milk usually isn't!”

Phil threw back the covers. “I'll come.”

“To get the highly dangerous milk? Seems like overkill.” Clint headed for the door. “Give me ten, and then if Jarvis starts talking to you about milk, maybe set off the alarm.”

“Clint-”

Slipping out of the apartment, Clint headed down for the common area. The lights came on as he stepped into the kitchen, and he paused, just outside the door, his eyes flicking around the room. Nothing looking out of place, nothing out of the ordinary. He moved forward, his feet ghosting over the floor, and a tiny scuffling noise brought him up short.

Slowly, he moved into the kitchen and crouched down, peering under the table.

DJ was curled into a ball, his knees drawn up tight against his chest, his arms wrapped tight around them, his head down and buried in his arms. A soft, almost inaudible sound was slipping past the shield of his arms, his shoulders jerking with the force of it. It was quiet, very quiet, but DJ was crying.

“Deej?” Clint whispered, trying not to panic.

His head came up, just a little, just enough for Clint to see his tear filled eyes. He made an inarticulate noise, scrambling backwards, his bare feet kicking against the tile.

“I did not tell him,” Jarvis said, his voice still strained. 

“Jarvis didn't tell me,” Clint agreed, and he went down on his knees, trying to get closer without scaring DJ more. “I came to get milk. Deej, it's okay, it's okay. Are you hurt? Jarvis, is he hurt?”

“No,” Jarvis said, even as DJ shook his head. 

“Okay, so, what-” Clint met the boy's gaze, and his heart sank. “Did you have a bad dream?” he asked, because yeah, that he could understand. “Did you have a nightmare, tinkertoy?”

DJ's chin dipped. Just a bit. But it was enough to coax a fresh wave of tears from him. He scrubbed the heel of his hand against one cheek, and then the other.

“Do you want me to get To-”

He didn't even get the word out before DJ was shaking his head, his expression frantic. The force of the gesture brought Clint up short. “Jarvis?” he asked, still lost.

“He went there first,” Jarvis said. There was a moment of pause. “Sir was... Otherwise occupied.”

“Oh. Oh!” Struggling not to smile, Clint ducked his head. “Yeah, I guess you would know what that was all about, huh?”

“Certain activities used to be fairly common in the workshop, prior to Dummy's change in status,” Jarvis said. “He understands that he was not to interrupt these...” The AI cleared his nonexistent throat. “These activities when he was a bot. Despite my efforts to explain otherwise, it appears that he is now determined to uphold that rule.”

Clint rubbed a hand on the back of his neck. “Well, that's nice of you, buddy, but I'm sure they-”

That set off a fresh wave of tears, DJ's face twisted in something that looked like panic, a sob slipping past his teeth. He shook his head hard enough to make Clint worried that he'd hurt himself, and he held up a hand. “Okay, okay! No telling Tony, got it, I promise!” DJ slumped back, relief flooding his face, and Clint cast around desperately for the right thing to say. “Do you want to come and stay with me an' Phil?” He held out his hands, not touching DJ, but giving him the option.

DJ lunged forward with enough force to rock Clint back on his heels. His breath knocked out of him in a rush, Clint caught the boy with one arm, bracing himself with his other hand. DJ's arms went around his neck, his face buried in Clint's shoulder. His grip was almost painful, and Clint wrapped an arm around his back. “Okay,” he said. “I'll take that as a yes. Is that a yes?” he asked, and DJ nodded without raising his head. “Okay,” Clint repeated, not sure what he'd gotten himself into, but he knew that anything was better than DJ left alone under the damn kitchen table to cry by himself.

Clint was pretty sure he'd been there at some point in his childhood, and it fucking sucked. 

He stood up, carrying DJ with him, and groaned as every ache in his body reasserted itself. “You are getting too big for this,” he said, and DJ clung harder, his face rubbing against Clint's shoulder. Clint was pretty sure that he was going to need a shower at this rate, and he headed for the door. “Jarvis, could you let Phil know that we're going to have a guest? So that he can follow house rules and get his pants on?”

“Of course.” Jarvis waited for him to reach the door, then reminded him, “The milk.”

“Milk, right, yes,” Clint said, retracing his steps and kicking the door to the fridge open. DJ was clinging to his neck, shaking now, and Clint made a grab for the milk jug. He didn't need a whole gallon, but he needed to not have a crying kid in his arms, so he was taking the whole damn gallon.

With DJ seated on one arm and the milk in the other hand, he headed back to his apartment, praying that Phil wasn't going to kill him for this.

Phil met him at the elevator door, dressed in a battered Army Rangers t-shirt and plaid pajama pants. “How bad?” he mouthed at Clint. Clint gave him a “how the hell would I know?” look over the boy's head. It wasn't the right answer, and Phil's eyes flicked upwards.

“Hey, DJ,” he said, and DJ looked up. He sniffed, and Phil gave him an easy smile. “Clint got us milk,” he said, his voice calm. “And I'm going to make some cocoa. Would you like some?”

DJ scrubbed the back of his wrist over his nose. He glanced at Clint. “What? He's asking if we want chocolate,” Clint said, because DJ seemed to be waiting for an answer. “My answer is always going to be yes, kid, even if it wasn't Phil's super special homemade hot cocoa.” Clint bumped his forehead against DJ's. “But it is. So I'd advise you take the man up on his offer.”

That won him a wobbly smile, and Phil took the milk from Clint's hand. “Cocoa?” he asked DJ, and this time, DJ nodded. “Okay, good. Go get cleaned up, Clint will show you where the bathroom is, and I'll make the cocoa.”

Clint set DJ down before the boy could wriggle out of his arms. “Why do I get stuck on sticky kid duty?” he asked, smiling.

“Because you always scorch the milk, Barton,” Phil said, his voice wry. 

“Make one little mistake,” Clint muttered, but it was worth it because DJ was leaning against his hip, clinging to the hem of his shirt.. “Let's go, snotmonster.”

Ten minutes later, DJ was seated at the table, wearing one of Clint's t-shirts and a pair of Phil's socks, swimming in the excess fabric and cheerful about it. He kicked his feet, watching the toes of the socks swing, grinning down at them. Phil set a cup of cocoa down in front of him, bringing DJ's head up.

DJ reached for the mug, dragging it to the edge of the table. Wrapping both of his hands around it, he peered into he cup. Then he gave Phil a disappointed look.

“Half a cup,” Phil said, sinking into his own seat. “It's rich stuff.”

DJ looked at Clint, holding the cup up, his lower lip sticking out in a distinct pout. Clint pushed away from the doorframe. “Not the amount,” he said, wandering over to the cupboards. He opened one of the cabinets and fished into the back of the shelf. “It's the trimmings.” He pulled out the bag of marshmallows and held it up. DJ grinned, holding his cup out.

“Please tell me you're joking,” Phil said, as Clint opened up the bag of marshmallows.

“He's like, four, Phil. His refined palette goes for sugar, sugar, and occasional extra doses of sugar.” Clint dropped a couple of them into DJ's cup. DJ immediately went to work mashing them into the hot chocolate with his spoon. Clint considered the resulting mess. “Okay, that looks pretty good.”

“How are you still alive?” Phil asked as Clint dumped some in his cup as well.

“I balance my excesses with MREs and bouts of vigorous exercise,” Clint said, flipping his chair around before he sank into it. “Not sure you get to talk, Mr. Diner Blue Plate Special and Gas Station Donuts.”

Phil shook his head. “So, why are you up so late?” he asked DJ. DJ glanced at him over the lip of his mug, his huge brown eyes liquid, but he busied himself with his drink, ignoring the question. 

“He had a nightmare,” Jarvis said. DJ glared at the ceiling, his expression fierce despite his sticky brown mustache. 

“Everyone has bad dreams,” Phil said, drawing DJ's attention. He gave DJ a faint smile. “I do. Clint does.”

“Yes, Clint does,” Clint said, holding up his mug. “And so do Steve and Tony.”

“He is aware of sir's bad dreams,” Jarvis said. 

Clint caught Phil's eye. “Yeah, Tony sleeps down in the workshop sometimes, doesn't he?” he said, and he knew all of Phil's tells. The faint twitch of his mouth was one of them.

“Less now than he used to,” Jarvis said. “Steve makes certain of that. But while sleeping there, sir was often plagued with bad dreams.”

“I imagine so. Was this the first one you've ever had?” Phil asked. DJ nodded, staring down at his cup. “Do you want to tell us about it?” DJ's shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. Phil nodded. “You don't have to talk about them,” he said, his voice kind. “Sometimes, it's hard to talk about things. Even when you like talking.” He stood up, crossing back to the stove and getting the pan. “So you can tell us about your dreams by drawing them, if that's easier for you.”

He poured a little more of the cocoa into DJ's cup. “Everyone has things that scare them.” DJ considered him, unblinking, unmoving. Phil gave him a faint smile. “And sometimes, even if we face those things when we're awake, when we're asleep, we have nightmares.” He turned around, carrying the pan back to the sink. “Nightmares can't hurt you. But they are scary.”

Clint reached out and tapped DJ on the head with his spoon, drawing DJ's attention. “If you have a bad dream, you should come and find someone. Or have Jarvis tell us, okay?” DJ made a face, and Clint bopped him again, the bowl of the spoon bouncing against DJ's head. “No backtalk, Astroboy.”

“Sir informs Steve when he has bad dreams, does he not?” Jarvis asked.

“And Clint has to tell me when he has a nightmare,” Phil said, drying his hands on a towel.

“I mostly tell Aunt Nat,” Clint whispered, which coaxed a giggle out of DJ. Clint finished his cocoa. “Finish up,” he said, and DJ tipped the cup up, draining the dregs in a quick gulp. He handed Clint his cup, scrubbing the back of his hand against his mouth. “Better?” he asked, and DJ nodded.

“DJ?” Phil crouched down next to his chair. “Why did you stay human?”

Clint stilled, mentally cursing himself. The question hadn't even occurred to him. But DJ studied Phil, his mouth turned down. He leaned forward, just a little, and Phil met him halfway, pulling him in for a gentle hug. Over DJ's head, he met Clint's eyes, and Clint shrugged, helpless. But DJ was already relaxing, his small hands clinging to the fabric of Phil's shirt.

Phil rubbed his back. “Do you want to stay here tonight?” he asked.

DJ looked at him. At Clint. Clint nodded, and DJ's face relaxed. Looking back at Phil, he nodded, the gesture somehow desperate. “All right,” Phil said, straightening up. “Go brush your teeth, and wash your face, and then it's time for bed.”

Nodding, DJ slid off of the chair, trotting over to the counter with his empty cup. He opened the dishwasher and placed it in the rack. And then he was off again, walking with his feet tipped out like a duck's feet to avoid stepping on the trailing toes of the socks. 

“Sorry,” Clint said in a low voice, as soon as DJ was out of the room. “I didn't now what to do.”

“Seems like you did just fine,” Phil said, giving him a smile. He stood, and picked up both of their cups. “Jarvis says that he was in the kitchen?”

“Yeah, hiding under the table,” Clint said. His stomach was churning, and he folded his arms on the back of the chair, leaning his chin on them. “I, uh, I think that's-” He shook his head. “I didn't know what to do, he didn't want to go to Tony and Steve, but it wasn't like I could leave him under the damn kitchen table.”

“Yeah, Jarvis explained.” Phil leaned up against the counter, his arms folded over his chest. “We'll figure it out in the morning.”

Clint stood. “This is probably going to fuck up their attempts some parenting thing, right?”

“Probably.” Phil glanced at him. “Do you care?”

“Not at all,” Clint said. “Just wanted to be clear about what Stark would be yelling at me for tomorrow.”

“It's not like he needs a reason,” Phil said.

“Yeah, so I might as well do something to deserve it.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slight warning for a passing discussion of alcohol cravings, fear of loss and references to physical abuse.
> 
> Tony really is trying to build a relationship here, he's just not particularly good at it. And everyone else in this tower is messed up.

“Wake up, Deej, Steve got us bran muffins and I need you to come eat mine so that I don't have to, you know, touch it,” Tony called as he headed for DJ's bedroom. He scrubbed a hand through his hair, only half awake. “It has raisins! Yum!”

There was no response from DJ's room, and Tony paused at the door. “Deej?” He leaned a hand against the doorframe. “Hey. Don't tell me you're up already. It's like, three am.”

“It's seven, sir,” Jarvis said.

“Ugh,” Tony said. He opened the door and stuck his head inside. “DJ?” One glance told him that the bed was empty and tragically unmade, the covers and sheets dragged half off the mattress and onto the ground. Tony rolled his eyes. “No floor nesting!”

He strode back towards the workshop. “No sleeping on the floor, you broken pile of code, really, how many times-” He stopped. Dummy's charging station was empty. “Jarvis, where's Dummy?”

“In the Barton/Coulson quarters.”

“Why.” It wasn't a question. It was barely a word. He didn't wait for the response, he just turned on his heel and headed back for the elevator. “If Clint is letting him have Sugar Frosted Fried Honey Smacks or something else just as bad, I will kill him.”

“I do not think that is a real product, sir,” Jarvis said. “Not that this has ever stopped you.”

“You know what? You know what I meant,” Tony told him. “If I'm eating bran muffins that Steve found at some health food hellhole that doesn't believe in using fats or oils in their baked goods, so is DJ. He does not get to escape to the magical land of refined sugar and flour.”

“I do not believe that was his intent,” Jarvis said.

“Yeah, well, he's a spoiled little brat and everyone in this tower needs some guidelines because at this rate, he's going to be raised as a wild little wolf child, going from door to door for meals.” He resisted the urge to kick the door, and instead, knocked like an adult. It was much harder than it should've been. He even waited for a couple of seconds before he knocked again.

Because he was an adult. A parent. A good example.

The door opened. Barton leaned out, his eyes still squeezed shut, his hair a spikey mess, his face scrunched up. Before Tony could even get a word out, Clint shut the door in his face.

Tony gaped at the panel, completely stymied. Before he could get his hand up, ready to pound the hell out of the door again, it reopened. 

“Take it away now,” Clint said, holding DJ out in Tony's direction. DJ dangled limply from between Clint's hands, yawning, his cheeks pink and his eyes sleepy. “Your kid kicks like a bad tempered mule, Stark.”

Tony all but snatched him away from Clint. “What is he doing here?” he asked, and it came out far more accusatory than he intended. “And I know.”

“I woke up with his foot in my mouth,” Clint said, leaning against the doorframe. He scrubbed a hand over his face, yawning wide enough to show off his back molars. “In my MOUTH.”

“Sleep with your mouth closed like a civilized human being, and this wouldn't happen,” Tony shot back, before he could rein himself in. “Actually, if you didn't have my kid, this wouldn't happen.” DJ grabbed a fistful of his shirt and dragged himself over Tony's shoulder, draping himself halfway down Tony's back. Tony caught hold of him and pinned him in place. “Why was he down here?”

Clint squinted in his direction, his expression smoothing out. One shoulder came up in a half shrug. “He was in the kitchen when I swung by to grab some milk,” he said. “Jarvis said that you and Steve were...” His eyes darted towards DJ. “Occupied, and he seemed to want some company, so Phil an' I gave him some cocoa and put him to bed.”

DJ gave a squeak, and Tony realized that his arm had tightened on the boy. He made a conscious attempt to relax. “Sorry, buddy,” he said, and DJ's hands rattled against his back, beating out a rhythm that was almost as fast as Tony's heartbeat. “Why was he in the kitchen?”

“Dunno,” Clint said, yawning, and he tried to retreat back into his apartment. “Look, I got like, no sleep last night because of Pele there, so can we just-”

“He had a nightmare.”

Tony froze as Phil appeared behind Clint. Clint groaned, and Phil ignored him. “He had a bad dream, and we didn't think it was a good idea to send him back to his room alone, so we asked him if he wanted to stay here. He wanted to, so he stayed here with us.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” It took Tony a second to realize that the words had come from him, that it was his voice that was a little too loud and a little too sharp. He pulled back, his teeth clamped together against another frustrating wash of words that he was better off not saying.

“Great, you get him wound up, you can deal with him,” Clint said. He clasped Phil's shoulder with one hand as he turned back into the apartment, his bare feet slapping on the tile. “I'm too tired for this.”

Tony ignored him, his attention focused on Phil. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“He had a nightmare,” Coulson repeated. His gaze was steady, his voice calm. “Clint found him in the kitchen and brought him back here. We gave him some cocoa-”

“Yeah, I got that part,” Tony said, his body canted forward, aggressive, combative, and Phil's eyebrows arched. Tony knew, on some level, that the spike of rage was irrational, but that didn't help. It never helped, to know that he was irrational, that he was a hot mess, that he was broken in some fundamental way. It never helped, to know that, it just made him angry and frustrated and he turned on his heel, his child clutched to his chest. Without another word, he stalked away.

“Stark.” Phil's voice followed him down the hall. “He stayed human. And he went to the place where we all show up, sooner rather than later. He went to the kitchen, because he knew someone would find him.”

Tony glared at Phil over his shoulder. “Is that supposed to mean something?” 

Phil's mouth kicked up in a faint smile. “Sometimes, kids want to be found,” he said, his voice quiet. “Sometimes, everyone wants to know that someone will come looking for them.” His gaze was steady, his clear, pale eyes so hard to avoid. “Did you hide? Didn't you want someone to-”

“Yeah, and no one ever fucking did,” Tony gritted out.

“Stark-” Coulson called, but Tony was gone, he was long gone, and he didn't want to hear it. He wouldn't hear it, because he didn't give a damn about anything that Coulson had to say right now, he didn't give a damn about anything that anyone had to say.

Except DJ, who was, as usual, not saying a word.

Words pressed against his teeth, obscenities and caustic, stinging syllables that were designed to hurt, to dispel the ache that had settled in his chest. He swallowed them, and it took effort, more effort than it should have, more effort than he'd actually thought that he could manage.

But he managed. Because he had to.

“Jarvis, what happened?” he said, and his voice was calmer than he'd expected it to be. 

“Sir?”

“What happened?” DJ was wiggling in his arms, a faint, unhappy whine accompanying the way he pushed at Tony's grip, and for a second, Tony's arms tightened. But DJ was stubborn, shoving hard against Tony's chest, and Tony lowered him down to the ground. Perversely, as soon as DJ was on the ground, he leaned into Tony's side, burying his face in the cotton of Tony's t-shirt. Tony stroked his hair.

“He appears to have had a bad dream,” Jarvis said, and Tony's teeth locked.

“Yeah, despite being the last one to know, I did in fact get that,” he said. “How did he end up with Barton?” Barton, of all people. Barton, who was more of a fuck-up than he was. But it was Barton who'd somehow made this okay, it was Barton who'd been the one to pick DJ up, and give him something sweet, and put him back to bed.

The sense of self-loathing and unthinking, unreasoning jealousy was suffocating. 

“He left his room looking for you, I believe." 

Tony stopped, stymied. “Why didn't he-” He looked down. “Why didn't you come get me?” he asked, and he probably shouldn't be so hurt by that. DJ blinked up at him, and Tony tried again. “Why didn't you come tell me, Deej?”

“He did go to your rooms, sir,” Jarvis said. “At the time, you and Steve were... Otherwise occupied.”

Yes, they had been occupied. Depending on what time DJ had crept in, they had most certainly been very much otherwise occupied, very loudly and enthusiastically occupied. He didn't need DJ's nod to punctuate that memory, but he got it anyway.

“Yeah, well, that-” He gave up. “That happens. A lot. Hopefully, that's going to keep happening, so-” The elevator came to a stop, the doors sliding open, and DJ was out as soon as there was room to slither between the metal panels, skipping down towards the workshop.

Tony froze, momentarily confused as to how they'd ended up here. He'd hit the button for the main floor. He glanced at the elevator panel. Hadn't he? But DJ was through the doors of the workshop now, and dragging a stool over to one of the main workbenches.

“He had a nightmare?” Tony asked Jarvis.

“Yes, sir.”

Tony swallowed. “How bad?”

“Sir?”

“How bad of a nightmare?”

There was a beat of a pause. “I do not know. He had expected him to go back to being a bot. That state is perhaps more natural to him, and far less confusing. He often retreats back to his original form when he is emotionally stressed.”

Tony crossed his arms over his chest. “Yeah, I've noticed. But he-” His mouth worked. “He didn't this time.”

“No, sir.”

“Why?”

“I do not know.”

Tony realized he was holding his breath, and forced it out. “But you could take a guess, couldn't you?”

“Yes.”

The spike of rage was unreasoning and completely out of proportion. “So do it!”

“He was seeking comfort, which is easier for him to get when he remains human.”

And he hadn't found it. 

“Next time,” Tony gritted out, frustrated beyond his rather meager limits, “you call me. Right away.”

“He did not want me to,” Jarvis, said and he hadn't even finished the sentence before Tony exploded, the words pouring out of him in a wave.

“That is not his choice to make, or yours! Next time-” and there would be a next time, there would be another time when his child was crying and afraid and in pain and Tony wouldn't be there, there was no way to avoid that thought, no way to stamp it out, no way to erase it. 

But he was shocked by just how much he wanted to drown it in liquor. That thought, and the one that maybe, this had been what it had been like for his father. Maybe he just hadn't been able to handle the situation, and being drunk and angry was better than being lost and helpless and fractured by the weight of a child's needs. Maybe Howard had tried, somewhere along the way, and had just been incapable of providing what Tony had needed, or what he thought Tony had needed.

Maybe he'd just quit, and stopped trying, because he'd known failure was a foregone conclusion.

Tony slammed the door on that line of thought, because he'd followed in his father's footsteps in too many things; he would not repeat Howard's mistakes this time. “Next time, you will notify me, immediately.” He braced his hands on the workbench, his eyes squeezed shut, trying to control his breathing.

“Yes, sir,” Jarvis said, and they were the right words, but the tone of disappointment and resignation bled through even that simple two word phrase.

“What?” Tony snarled. “What? Do you have something to add? Some nugget of wisdom for me?” There was a pause, a single beat, and Tony whirled around. 'WHAT?” he yelled.

“Sir,” Jarvis said, his voice quiet, “he did not want me to. He trusts me. If you order me to do this, I will. But he will know that I am no longer be able to make that choice. How long do you think it will before he begins to hide from me? How long before I can no longer be your spy, and he will be left alone?”

“I'm not leaving him alone,” Tony said, his shoulders hunched, his fingers white knuckled on the edge of the bench. “I'm- That's what I'm trying to make sure-”

“That's what you're trying to do, sir,” Jarvis said. “But the lesson you're teaching him is not the one I think you intend.”

“And what, exactly, do you think that is?”

“That you don't believe he has any right to self-determination,” Jarvis said, his voice very quiet, and Tony's heart seized in his chest. “Or privacy. That you will impose your will over his. That is, I fear, the lesson he's learning.”

“He's a CHILD,” Tony snapped. 

“For now,” Jarvis said. “That is a choice you cannot take away from him, sir.”

Tony stared, until his vision went white, at the far wall. Then, slowly, he let his eyes close, and his head fall forward. “I don't-”

A tiny, almost inaudible sniff, brought his head up.

DJ blinked at him, his eyes huge and wet. Tony's mouth opened, and closed, and all the fight went out of him. He sank down, down to the floor, down to his knees. He tried not to notice the way that DJ's hands were twisted into the fabric of his pajama pants, the way his shoulders were up and his head was down, drawn back and down into himself, eyes huge and confused over his downturned mouth.

He stared at Tony, and Tony had no idea how to make this right.

“Okay,” he said, his voice quiet, and he tried not to register how DJ flinched. Tried not to let that tiny twitch of movement sink its claws into him, but he was never going to forget it, not ever. That flinch would haunt him forever. But he soldiered on, his teeth gritted around the words. “Compromise.”

He forced himself to meet DJ's eyes. “I can't- Have you be alone if you need me. If there's even a chance that you need me.” Breathing hurt, and he did it anyway. “So compromise. Two things. If you're sick, or hurt-” He stopped, shaking his head, and held up three fingers. “Three things. If you're hurt, or sick, or scared,” he corrected, stressing the last word, “then Jarvis needs to tell someone.”

DJ's mouth turned down, his teeth sinking into his lower lip.

“Because in those three instances,” Tony said, forcing himself forward, forcing himself to fumble blindly through the nearly crippling sense of self-doubt, “there is nothing so important in the world as making sure you're okay.” He leaned forward, trying for a smile, trying for a reassuring tone. “Not my job, not my work, not sex, not anything. We're going to drop everything, in those instances, to take care of you.”

A tear slid down the curve of DJ's cheek, and without thinking, Tony reached out to brush it away. Before he could pull back, DJ leaned into his fingers, and the sense of relief was dizzying.

“The rest of the time,” Tony continued, ignoring how his voice shook, “I can't make that promise. Sometimes I have to work, or finish something, or there's bad guys out there we have to deal with. I can't promise that I'll always be able to be there for you. But someone will. Someone always will, not someone we hire, or a-” He broke off, frustration choking him, and he took a deep breath before he tried again. “Someone who loves you will always be here. With you.”

DJ was watching him, his eyes still bright with unshed tears, but he smiled, just a little. Tony tried to take that as a positive sign.

“If you're just bored, or want attention, or are trying to get out of your tasks, and you need to stop that, you have tasks, that's- That's a legally binding thing between me and you, you are child labor and you need to do your work or I'm not feeding you,” Tony told him, and DJ giggled, his mouth stretching in a wobbly grin. “Sometimes, you might want attention, and I might not be able to give it to you. But if you are sick, or if you are in pain, or you are scared, then you are our first priority.

“And I need Jarvis to get someone for you, right away.” His thumb stroked against DJ's cheek, sweeping away the damp of his tears. “You can choose. You can tell him who to get. Or you can get someone, yourself. But I cannot have you be alone, and in pain, I cannot-”

Tony's eyes stung, and he squeezed them shut, ignoring the way his throat closed around the words. “I can't,” he said, and that was no explanation, but fuck it, he was lousy at explaining himself. Always had been. Leaning back, far enough to meet DJ's eyes, he forced a smile. “Okay?”

DJ considered him, his head tipped to the side. He took a deep breath, his chest expanding with it, and he nodded. Tony held up a hand, his palm flat, and DJ gave him a high five without even a beat of pause. “I'm sorry,” he said, and he was no good at apologies, but he could try. “Deej, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you. But I'll never-” He sucked in a breath, and made a promise to both of them. “I will never hit you, I'll never do that, you know that, right? You don't have to be scared of me.”

“He is not afraid of you, sir,” Jarvis said. “He is upset because you are upset, and he does not understand why. He does not understand, which is a frustrating situation, but he is not scared.” He paused. “Is that correct, DJ?”

DJ nodded, and reached up to touch a finger against the tip of Tony's nose. “You have always protected him, and you have never harmed him,” Jarvis pointed out. “He has no reason to fear or distrust you. But he does not understand.”

“How do you know?” Tony asked, returning the gesture, his rough fingertip barely ghosting over DJ's nose. DJ grinned, a giggle bubbling out of him, and he leaned forward to press his nose against Tony's finger.

“Because I am the same way, to a certain extent, sir. But he is trying. Please be patient with him.”

Tony wanted to cry. Instead, he just sat back on his heels. “Yeah, that, well, that seems fair.” He got to his feet, and he felt ancient. “Can you do me a favor and just, uh, just tell Steve we could use him down here?”

“Of course, sir.”

Tony tucked his hands in his pockets. “I'm doing my best, even though it's not particularly good, you know that, right?” DJ considered him, his head tipped to the side, and he nodded. “I love you, kiddlet. No matter if you're a rolling around on squeaky little wheels or stampeding like a drunk elephant over every set of stairs that we have in this place, no matter what shape you take, I love you.”

DJ grinned, and scampered off across the workshop, heading for the charging stations where Butterfingers and You were both waiting. As Tony leaned against the workbench, watching, DJ checked the bots' joints, and the bots checked him over, straightening his hair and clothes with delicate care. Tony crossed his arms over his chest, watching, his heart aching in his chest.

“Tony?” Steve's voice came from the door, and his sound of his feet on the floor echoed through the workshop, catching the attention of DJ and the bots. Butterfingers and You straightened up, and DJ shot across the room, shrieking with laughter.

“Yeah, here, the kid needs a hug,” Tony said, and it was to Steve's credit that he didn't even pause, he didn't question it, he just leaned over and let DJ run into his arms. His arms closed securely around the little boy, his head tipping forward to brush a kiss against DJ's forehead.

He stood up, his eyes meeting Tony's. “That's all?” he said, his mouth kicking up as he settled DJ into the crook of his arm. “You should've handled that, Stark.”

“Not so good at hugs,” Tony said, pushing himself away from the workbench. He kept his steps easy and even, focusing on the way his body moved, on keeping his head down, on keeping his shoulders up, on keeping his spine straight. It took everything he had to keep himself upright, to keep himself moving, and he didn't have anything left to keep his mouth still. “I hold on too tight.”

The words were barely a whisper, barely had sound at all, but Steve heard them anyway. His arm slipped around Tony's waist, catching him, slowing his foreward momentum. He didn't hold on, didn't pull, and Tony could've easily shrugged off the touch. Instead, he found himself leaning back into Steve's chest. As Tony's weight settled against him, Steve's arm tightened.

“I don't know,” Steve whispered against his ear. “I always found your hugs to be just tight enough.”

Tony's eyes slid shut. “You know, if you really want me to feel better, you can, you know, drop that hand by six inches or so,” he said, and he regretted the words almost as soon as they were spoken. Because it had never been just sex, this thing with him and Steve, not even at the beginning, and he had never known how to handle that, still didn't.

Steve laughed against his neck. “You are such a fake, Stark,” he said, and those were words that should've stung, he'd heard them often enough in his life. But Steve said them with such amusement, such affection, that there was no pain to it. He softened even that with a kiss to the nape of Tony's neck, and Tony could feel his laughter against his skin.

“Yeah, well...” Tony turned without pulling away, and Steve met him with a kiss. “Hi,” Tony said against his mouth.

“Hi,” Steve said, leaning his forehead against Tony's, DJ still cuddled easily against his chest. Steve's eyes were clear and sharp as he scanned Tony's face. “You okay?”

Tony glanced at DJ, who had his eyes closed, snuggled down against the broad plane of Steve's shoulder. “Yeah,” Tony said, and Steve's eyes narrowed, just a flicker of his lashes, but he didn't question it. “I'll explain. Later.” His eyes darted towards DJ, and Steve nodded.

“Okay,” he said, kissing the top of DJ's head again. “You hungry, buddy?” he asked, and DJ nodded, without even bothering to open his eyes. “Oh, yeah, you must be starving.”

“I have argued we don't need to feed him nearly as much as we do,” Tony said, and one of DJ's hands came out, pawing at the air until he managed to snag a corner of Tony's sleeve. Tony considered the little hand. “This is gonna make it hard to walk, you know that, right? You just don't care.”

“He does not,” Steve said. “It's almost like he doesn't want you to wander off. Isolate yourself.” He cut a look in Tony's direction. “He's a pretty smart kid.”

“Yeah, well, he's been stuck with me for a long time,” Tony said. He took a deep breath. “I have had a tough morning,” he declared, putting his foot down. Steve didn't seem impressed by that, but Tony soldiered on anyway. “And I'm not eating bran muffins.”

“They're good for you,” Steve said. 

“So are a lot of things I flatly refuse to do,” Tony said. “No oatmeal and no bran muffins.”

“No donuts,” Steve countered.

“Fried eggs,” Tony offered.

“Scrambled egg whites,” Steve said. Tony made a face, and laughing, he added, “With spinach and cheese?”

“Done,” Tony said. DJ made a gagging noise. “I think that was a veto.”

“French toast?” Steve offered, and DJ nodded. 

“Spoiled rotten,” Tony told DJ, who pried open one eye and smiled at him, apparently pleased with the state of his life. Tony tried to take that as some amount of cold comfort.

And tried not to wonder what DJ's bad dream had been about.

*

“Hey, Doc!”

Bruce glanced up from his project. “Good afternoon,” he said. “Weren't you supposed to be here about an hour ago?”

“Had to stop to pick something up.” Clint wandered in, a brightly wrapped box balanced on his shoulder, held there with one hand. “Figured you needed more tiny science minion time.”

“Is he talking about you?” Bruce asked DJ, who was busy sorting pieces. DJ tore himself away from his task to blink up at Clint, who dropped his box on a nearby table before holding up a hand. DJ gave him a cursory high five before returning to his job. “Not much science today,” Bruce explained. “He wanted to. But that's... That doesn't seem like a good idea.”

He wasn't sure he should be doing this at all. Taking care of a small child, even on a temporary basis, seemed like asking for trouble, and he'd had enough of that. 

But for an hour at a time, short stolen pieces of time, when there were others home, he found himself unable to resist when DJ tugged on his hand. Just a couple of minutes, not long. Not long enough for anything bad to happen. Even though he knew that it took only seconds for something bad to happen.

He knew just how quickly bad things could happen.

Still, he let himself be drawn in by DJ, because he made very bad choices sometimes. He made bad choices often enough that he sometimes questioned if he could tell the difference any more.

“Yeah, I try to avoid letting him play with explosive arrowheads, and what you've got in your lab is probably a hell of a lot worse,” Clint said. He poked at the box of puzzle pieces. "Still, I woulda thought that you could manage something a bit better than this. This is your idea of a good time?"

Bruce looked up at him over the rims of his glasses. "Really? Last time you were in charge of him, didn't I find you sitting on the floor getting popcorn thrown at your face?"

"Excuse me," Clint said, struggling for dignity. "We were playing Popcorn HORSE, it's good for spacial reasoning, muscle control, and healthy eating habits.”

“You were throwing popcorn at each other,” Bruce said, unimpressed, but amused. “And occasionally managing to catch a piece in your mouth.”

"It's all in how you say it, Doc. This does not seem like it contributes to the mental and emotional growth of your young charge," he said, a wicked grin playing across his face. "Didn't you receive your operator's manual for our baby bot?" 

Bruce gave a snort. "Yes, I did. I'm using it to hold open a particularly heavy lab door. "

Clint gave him a mock scandalized look. "Doc! I am appalled." He leaned forward, snagging a piece from the box and handing it over to DJ, who immediately put it into place. "Did you read it?"

"I skimmed it," Bruce admitted. "That was... I've seen tax codes that were more concise than our instructions for the care and keeping of one small human being."

DJ looked up, and Clint reached over and took the puzzle piece out of his mouth. "That's right, you technological marvel, your instruction manual weighed more than you." He leaned in. "Who has crazy overprotective borderline psychotic daddies?" DJ considered it, then threw his arms out with a grin. Clint did the same. "That's right! YOU DO! IT'S YOOOOOOU!" He scooped DJ up and gave him a toss. 

"I think that 'borderline psychotic' might be going a bit far," Bruce said, but he had to duck his head down over the box of pieces to hide the smile that he couldn't quite bite back. "They're just trying to figure things out, that's all."

"Uh-huh." Clint sprawled out on the floor and sat DJ on his stomach. "Wanna play airplane?" he asked. DJ bounced up and down, forcing the air out of him, and Clint grabbed for him. "Okay, okay! Look, I get banged up as it is, I don't need your help in that department.” He sat up, letting DJ scramble off of him. “Who do you think wrote it?” he asked Bruce as he kicked off his boots and folded his legs up, setting his feet against DJ's stomach. “Ready?” he asked the boy, and DJ nodded, grabbing hold of Clint's hands.

“I don't know,” Bruce said, smiling as Clint swung his legs up, balancing DJ on the balls of his feet, straightening his legs until DJ was hovering in mid-air. Arms spread wide, DJ shrieked with laughter. “The tone seemed like Steve, but the sheer weight of the information can't be anything but Tony.”

“Tony with a healthy dose of Jarvis,” Clint agreed. He rocked back and forth, letting DJ soar through the air. “How long until you get to do the real thing, little bug?”

“There is no way that Tony would take him flying,” Bruce said. He should probably stop with the puzzle, but somehow, he was now invested in finishing the image of the Muppets in mid-curtain call. He poked through the pile, looking for the right shade of green for Kermit. “Even if he was inclined, Steve would have his head, and the armor would not save him.”

“Yeah, probably, but I think-” A scuffing noise stopped him, and Clint's head rolled back. “Man, I forgot already. Hey, Deej, I got you something. Wanna see what?” DJ blinked at him, then scrambled down to the floor, his feet kicking the whole way down. Laughing, Clint steadied him. “Go. I forgot it, and I think it wants attention.”

“Wants-” Bruce glanced up just in time to see the box move.

DJ went on his tip toes, his bare feet pushing against the carpet as he pulled the box off of the table and down to the floor. Sitting himself down, he methodically began removing the wrapping paper as Clint stood up, brushing off the seat of his pants. Bruce looked at him. “Why is the box moving?” he asked. He didn't really want the answer, but he felt obligated to ask anyway.

Clint was watching DJ, smiling. “I was thinking, he had a bad dream, right? That was why he was downstairs alone the other night.”

Bruce glanced in his direction, caught by that. “Yes?”

“So being a kid and having a bad dream fucking sucks, and I was trying to figure out, you know, how to help him with that,” Clint said. He looked insufferably smug, and Bruce took his glasses off.

“What did you do,” he asked, and it wasn't a question, because the box in DJ's hands was bare now, and the boy was prying it open. “Clint, what did you-”

“I got DJ a pet.” 

Bruce gaped at him, horrified. “You did what?” he asked.

“I got DJ a pet,” Clint repeated. He crouched down next to DJ, who was wrestling the lid off of the box. 

“Are you out of your mind?” Bruce got up, his chair bouncing back against the wall. “DJ, hey, can you give me that? I just need to-”

Before Bruce could take the box away from him, DJ got it open. There was a moment of stillness, and then a massive grin spread over DJ's face. Clint, pleased, ruffled his hair. “What do you think, Tinkertoy?” DJ didn't even look at him, but he nodded, fast and hard. 

“Tony is going to kill you,” Bruce breathed, and Clint shrugged.

“Live fast, die young, leave a smokin' hot corpse,” he said. 

A low, sustained burble of sound came from the box. DJ blinked, and leaned in. He reached into the box, his movements cautious. A second later, he jerked his hand back, his fingers curled into his palm. 

“It's not going to hurt you,” Clint said. “Want me to get it out?”

DJ took a very deep breath, his shoulders rising and falling and, clutching the box with both hands, he nodded. Struggling against a laugh, Clint reached into the box. And set a lump of obscenely colored pink and purple faux fur on the floor next to DJ.

Bruce stared at it. “What... What the hell is that?” he asked at last.

“Furby,” Clint said. He tapped it on the head with one finger, and the thing's big, round, plastic eyes opened wide. 

Bruce subsided back into the chair. “You got DJ a Furby,” he said. He really wasn't sure if that was better or worse.

“Well, yeah,” Clint said. The toy twitched, eyes blinking and mouth working as it made a soft little 'ah.' “I mean, I couldn't get him an animal. He's never seen a cat or a dog, you know, or even a bird, I didn't know if that would freak him out worse than help him, but I thought this little guy might be good.”

DJ was now on his belly, his arms folded under his chin, his eyes almost as big as the Furby's. The Furby bobbed up and down, and DJ's head did the same as he unconsciously mimicked its movements. Bruce bit his lip to keep from laughing.

“Tony is still going to kill you,” he said, rubbing his forehead with one hand. 

“Yeah, probably.” Clint took a seat on the ground next to DJ, his legs sprawled out in front of him, his weight braced on his hands, leaning on the ground behind him. “Worth it, though.”

DJ giggled, and the Furby mimicked the sound back at him. DJ's head snapped up, glee crossing his features. 

“Thought it might help him with, you know, the talking thing,” Clint said. He glanced at Bruce, something almost childlike on his face. “Bad dreams, they fucking suck. And that's if you can tell people about them.” His mouth twitched into a humorless smile. “If you can't...” His voice faded away, and he turned his attention back to the Furby. “That's gotta suck. Not having the option.”

Bruce didn't let his thoughts even stray in that direction. He knew better. “Yes,” he said, shaking his head. “It would.” He looked down at the Furby, and wondered if it was going to survive the night. “What are you going to name it?” he asked DJ. Tony couldn't kill all of them.

DJ looked up at him, and then over at Clint, his eyes huge. “Yeah, he needs a name,” Clint agreed. “Or her. Could be a she. Hard to say.” He shrugged. “Furby needs a name.”

DJ rolled over into a sitting position, reaching out to pick up the Furby. Cradling it between his palms, he studied it, his expression intent. 

“Fluffy?” Clint suggested. DJ shook his head. “Spot? Tiger? Sassy? Rocky? Buster? Bear? Ginger? Boomer?”

“Bob?” Bruce asked, going back to the puzzle, his lips twitching. DJ giggled.

“Oreo? Patches? Scooter? Kiki? Roxy?” Clint continued, undeterred. DJ was looking up at him now, grinning. “Hawkeye Jr?” DJ gave him a look. “What? Little furbro's purple, it could be-”

DJ's face lit up. He pointed at Clint. Clint blinked down at the finger. “What. What are you- Hawkeye Jr?” DJ shook his head. “Clint?” Another disgusted shake of DJ's head. “I don't-”

“Furbro?” Bruce said, because yes, that did seem how this was going.

DJ let out a squeal and hugged the Furby tight. The Furby repeated the squeal back. “See,” Clint said. “He can learn how to talk.” He ruffled DJ's hair. “But you have to teach him.”

“Or he can just leave it on around you and Tony,” Bruce said, his lips twitching.

“Are you implying I talk too much?”

“It wasn't an implication so much as a statement of fact.” Bruce swept the loose puzzle pieces up and put them back in the box. 

“That's okay, he gets quiet time when it's your turn to baby-sit,” Clint said.

Bruce stared down at the half finished puzzle, his fingers twitching, and he almost broke it up and put it in the box, but maybe someone else could finish it with DJ. He put the lid onto the box and glanced up. DJ was focused on his new toy, rotating it in his hands, leaning in until he was nose to beak with it, making a series of high pitched noises.

“I don't think I should do this any more,” Bruce said, and the words ached. Dull and sad and resigned. “It's not safe for him to have me take care of him.”

Clint looked over at DJ. “He seems fine,” he said with a shrug. “And anyway, you're the only one who's done the reading, so I'm pretty sure you're the only one certified to take care of him.” He shrugged. “I used mine for target practice.”

Bruce shook his head. “Look, there's plenty of people here, and I'm fine being around him with another adult, but if the other guy shows up-”

“I think that he knows what to do. Right, kiddo?” Clint asked. He blew a sharp whistle, bringing DJ's head around. “If Bruce gets stressed out and the other guy shows up, what do you do?” he asked.

DJ opened his arms for a hug.

“Correct response,” Clint told him.

“Not the correct response,” Bruce told him, resisting a very real urge to strangle him. “I really don't think-”

“He knows where the vents are, Bruce,” Clint said. “And he knows when to run. But the other guy's never hurt a kid, has he?”

“I'd prefer not to have a first time on that,” Bruce said, scraping a hand over his face. “Especially not-” His voice trailed away, and DJ held up the Furby to him. Bruce took it, unable to resist the way that DJ was staring at him, hope and affection clear in his mobile features.

“What in the high heavens is that thing, and how did it get into my Tower?” Tony asked from the door. 

“It's DJ's,” Clint said, grinning.

“It most certainly is not.” Tony stalked forward. “Seriously. That- This is a horrific piece of pretend AI and I will take a hammer to it in about five seconds.”

“It was Bruce's idea,” Clint said, and Bruce wondered if he would even recognize a good choice any more. The strange thing was, as Tony turned towards him, betrayal all over his face, Bruce was pretty sure he didn't care any more.

Bruce thrust the toy at DJ. “Now would be a good time to run,” he told the boy, who blinked at him, and then he was off like a shot, hugging his Furby to his chest. “Find Steve!” Bruce called after him.

And he was pretty sure that tomorrow, he'd be finishing that puzzle with DJ.

*

“Welcome home.”

“Thanks, Jarvis,” Steve said, shifting the equipment cases on his back. “Everything okay here?”

“Everything is just fine, though the majority of the Tower's residents are currently sleeping.”

“Yeah, I figured.” He was a little disappointed, though. 

“I'm not that lucky,” Clint said, flipping Steve a salute. “Gonna go deal with our handler before he reads Nat's mission report.”

“I emailed it to him already,” Natasha said, and Clint made a sound somewhere between a moan and a sob. “You deserve it, bastard.”

“Yeah, I know.” Shaking his head, he wandered up the hallway.

“That was cruel,” Steve told her. 

Her lips curled up. “So am I.” Her head rolled in his direction as they walked together through the main floor of their combined quarters. “He did deserve it.”

“Yes, he did. Still cruel.” Steve set the equipment case down just inside the living room, checking the locks. Nat waited patiently for him. “The whole op was messy.”

“Yes. It was.” She was silent for a second. “Stark's hiding something.”

Startled, Steve looked in her direction, but she wasn't looking at him. “You think so?” he asked.

“Yes.” Her eyes slid in his direction. “Don't you?”

He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “Yeah,” he admitted. He didn't like to give the thought weight by verbalizing it, but he knew she was right. “Any idea what?”

“I was hoping you might have an idea,” she admitted. 

“Suspicions, but nothing concrete.”

She nodded. “Personal, or professional?”

“Personal,” he said immediately. “It's Dummy. I- I'm sure of that.”

Natasha considered that. “We need to involve SHIELD?”

“It's been suggested, but he wasn't particularly receptive,” Steve said. 

“I imagine not. He and Director Fury don't always see eye-to-eye.”

“Don't ever see eye-to-eye,” Steve corrected, and her lips kicked up. 

“That's true.” She was exhausted, he could see it in the way she held herself, in the too tight lines of her jaw and her shoulders, but she was still clear-eyed when she looked at him. “Keep us in the loop, Cap.”

“I will.” He took a deep breath. “Natasha? Thanks.”

Her eyebrows arched. “For?”

“For keeping an eye on him,” Steve said. “I... Miss things sometimes.”

“It's easier when you're not so close,” she said. Her smile was sweet this time. “And you don't miss much, Cap.”

“Flattery? From you?” He grinned. “Now I know I'm in trouble.”

“Always.” She waved an idle hand at him. “I'm heading for the gym. See you tomorrow.”

“Don't-”

“I need to burn off some energy,” she said, ignoring him. “I'll head to bed soon enough, Cap.”

He stopped in the hallway. “Promise?”

The look she tossed him over her shoulder was amused and tolerant. “Cross my heart, Steve.”

“I would like a few less lies on this team,” Steve said, and her laughter echoed after her as he stepped onto the elevator. Shaking his head, he looked up. “Is it Dummy or DJ tonight?”

“DJ, Steve,” Jarvis said. “He is down in the playroom, with sir. Would you like to-”

“Yes, please,” Steve said, relief flooding him. “They're asleep?”

“Both of them, yes, but perhaps you should go down anyway.” Jarvis sounded amused, and Steve grinned. 

“Sounds like a good idea, Jarvis. Thanks.”

The workshop was cold, cold enough to see his breath as he crossed the room. Butterfingers and You were both at work, but Steve took a couple of seconds to check on both of them, even if they seemed less interested in his presence than usual. Leaving them to their work, he headed back to the playroom.

It was warmer there, not much, but warmer, probably because of the efficient little space heater that had been set up in front of a massive pile of blankets and pillows, providing a little warm spot in the large room. The pile of blankets and pillows was clearly DJ's doing, and he wasn't surprised to find the boy curled up in his makeshift nest, hugging his furby. Tony sleeping right behind him, tucked around DJ, protective even in sleep, now, that was a surprise. 

Steve took a seat, looking down at them, a soft smile blooming on his face. It was easy to see the resemblance here, when they were both still and quiet, their faces relaxed in slumber. He could see Tony in the slope of DJ's nose and the way his hair curled over his forehead. In the way that both of their hands flexed as they slept.

Smiling, Steve considered the nearest bare stretch of wall. He reached for a box of charcoal sticks, and settled in to block out a new piece of the mural.

“Hey.”

Steve glanced over his shoulder, smiling at just that raspy little word. Tony had pushed himself into a half seated position, his shoulder propped against a box as he shoved a hand through his hair. “You're home.” He squinted at Steve. “Early. Very early.”

Steve set down his charcoal, dusting his hands off on a nearby rag. “Yeah,” he said, pitching his voice low. “Nat wasn't amused. She cleaned things up a bit ahead of schedule.”

Tony laughed, and the sound was warm and rough and familiar, curling in the depths of Steve's belly. “She does that,” he said, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Everything okay?”

“We got it done. Which you know, because you were all over the systems when we got there.” 

“I have a vested interest in keeping your fine ass alive,” Tony admitted.

Steve crouched down next to him, brushing his lips over Tony's, feeling him smile against his mouth. “I thought there were rules about the Stark boys and sleeping on the floor.”

“To the surprise of absolutely no one, I am a complete failure at upholding rules in the face of four year old stubbornness,” Tony said, his voice wry. Idly, he smoothed a hand over DJ's ruffled hair. “Especially when sleep deprived.”

Steve cupped his jaw with one hand, rubbing a thumb against the stubble covered skin of his cheek. “How long have you been up?”

Tony yawned, batting feebly at Steve's hand. “Let's just say, after seventy-two hours of consciousness, DJ's little blanket nest started looking really, really comfy.” Reading Steve's face correctly, he turned his head, pressing a kiss to Steve's palm. “Don't fuss, Cap, I had to get this finished.”

“Bottom line riding on it?” Steve asked, torn between amusement and frustration.

“Don't mock the bottom line, it keeps us in fancy toys and, you know, food and utilities,” Tony pointed out.

“I think my SHIELD salary could keep a slightly smaller apartment warm, actually, but now that you bring it up, why is it so cold in here?”

“Had to lower the temp for the prototype, it's-” Tony yawned again, wide enough to crack his jaw. “I'll explain it later, when I'm, you know, conscious.”

“Probably for the best.” Steve scooped DJ up, cradling the sleeping boy against his chest as he stood up. “I'm going to put him to bed.”

“Yeah, okay,” Tony said, the words slurring at the end, his eyes at half mast. Still, he reached up and smoothed DJ's hair back, just one more time, before Steve headed out. 

DJ barely stirred as Steve carried him across the playroom and into his bedroom. When Steve lowered DJ into his bed, however, his eyes fluttered open. “Hey,” Steve whispered, even as he pulled the covers up. “It's late. Go back to sleep.”

Sleepy, his cheeks pink, DJ grinned up at Steve, hands coming up to paw at the air. Steve leaned over for a hug and a smacking kiss. “Did you miss me?” he asked, as DJ settled back against the pillows. DJ nodded, even as he snuggled down. “Were you good while I was gone?” That won him a shrug, and Steve laughed. 

“He was moderately successful, when he attempted to be good,” Jarvis said.

“We just need to make more of an attempt?” Steve asked. He ruffled DJ's hair. “Try harder, brat.” DJ's lower lip stuck out in a distinct pout. “Fine,” Steve said, relenting without a fight. “Maybe we can have pancakes tomorrow, okay?” DJ nodded, and Steve smiled down at him. He liked family breakfasts. No matter if he spent half of the morning cleaning up from them. There was something homey and comforting about sleepy faces and the sound of bacon sizzling and the coffee pot burbling along while Tony and Clint hovered like vultures. It might take two hours to feed everyone and three hours to clean up after it, but it was worth it for the combined warmth at that table.

Steve really liked having a family. This family, to be precise.

Leaning over, he kissed DJ on the forehead. “I missed you, too, buddy.” He straightened up. “I love you.” He held up a hand, and DJ tapped his palm against Steve's. “Good night.” DJ held up Furbro, and Steve gave it a kiss, too. “Enough stalling. Good night.”

“Love you,” Furbro said, and Steve stared at it, his eyes narrowed. But he didn't say anything, he just waited for DJ to cuddle down against his pillows, his eyes closing. Then he retreated, filing that bit of information away for later thought. By the time he got back to the playroom, Tony was sitting up, his back braced against a packing crate.

“You've been busy,” Tony said, waving a hand at the new sketch. 

Steve glanced at it. “I think it's pretty good,” he said, with a faint smile. “You don't like it?”

Tony studied the image. “Seems familiar, somehow,” he said, a smile tugging at the edges of his lips.

“You think so?” Steve took a seat on the edge of the crate. The drawing was of a dark-haired knight in full plate armor, his helmet resting beside his knee, sleeping in the hollow between the roots of a massive old tree. His head was back, leaning against the trunk, his dark hair falling over his forehead. A tiny imp of a boy, elfin and spry, was peering around the tree, his eyes bright and curious, his lips drawn up in a puckish bow. One hand was reaching for that shiny helmet, covetous and gleeful.

Steve looked back at Tony. “I don't see it,” he said.

Tony gave him a look. “Captain Rogers, you are a damn liar,” he said. He reached up, one hand smoothing over Steve's leg. “C'mere.”

“You're barely awake,” Steve said, catching his hand.

“Yeah, and you're still running high on adrenaline,” Tony said. He wrapped his hand around Steve's, twining their fingers together. “You didn't even change before you came down to hover.” He tugged on Steve's hand. “C'mere,” he repeated. “I may be half asleep, but I can still take care of you.”

Steve let himself be pulled down. “I'm a big boy,” he said, feeling his breath hitch despite his words. Because it didn't take much for Tony to get his attention, especially when he was as wound up as he was. “I can take care of myself.”

“I know.” Tony's voice was warm and low, rough at the edges, promising Steve all sorts of things without even having to form the words. “But I like doing it, so for once in your noble, self-sacrificing life, will you please just come here and let me do filthy things to you?”

Steve was on his knees in the blankets now, and Tony knew how to get his uniform off, he was all clever fingers and determination. It took everything he had to grab Tony's wrist, stilling him. “Should we- I mean, here-”

Tony grinned at him. “Jarvis, let us know if DJ even makes a move towards the door, okay?”

“Of course, sir.” Jarvis sounded amused, and Steve wanted to curse at one or both of them but Tony's mouth was on his, stealing his words and his will.

“We shouldn't-” he managed, when they broke apart, desperate to breathe.

Tony tipped his head towards Steve's. “This will keep you from spending half the night running from our bed down to his room,” he whispered, his voice rough. “What, did you think I didn't know about that?”

“Kinda hoped you didn't,” Steve admitted, resigned. The fear wasn't constant, but when it hit him, it was impossible to ignore. The sensation of loss was always there, in the back of his head, and no matter how he tried to bury it, it would slip out, coming back to haunt him. He would find himself curled half around Tony, his fingers resting over the steady beat of Tony's heart, or just outside of DJ's room, eyes closed, listening to the boy breathe.

The fear was unreasonable and insane and he still gave into it, into the need to know that they were safe. That all of them were safe, but especially, especially these two.

“Don't worry, I find it sweet when you take my pulse in the small hours of the morning,” Tony said, and Steve buried his face in Tony's shoulder, hiding the way his face heated. Tony's fingers slid through his hair. “Shouldn't be. But it is.”

Groaning, Steve raised his head. “I won't-”

Tony dragged him back down. “You do what you have to do to hold it together,” he said, practical as always about things. “Just... You know, let me help.”

Steve glanced up at the door. “Couch. Workshop,” he said, making an executive decision, and apparently it was the right one, because Tony was laughing when Steve rolled to his feet, pulling Tony along with him. 

“Oh, that takes me back,” he said, wicked and warm and Steve loved him so much that it hurt. “Let's go, Captain, my Captain, and let me show you a new way of checking that my heart's nice and healthy. Hell, I'll even turn on the heat. Don't let it be said I don't love you.”

“I missed you,” Steve said, and Tony pushed him forward.

“Prove it.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a stressful chapter, so please bear with our broken children.
> 
> Warnings for anxiety attack or panic attack and implied parental pressures

"What the hell is this?"

“As it turns out,” Steve said to Clint, a faint smile on his face as Tony slapped piles of pages in front of each of the Avengers, “the state of New York has rather stringent requirements for home schooling children.”

“Are we home schooling him?” Bruce asked, his reading glasses already perched on the bridge of his nose, his body hunched over the paperwork. 

“Well, he sure as hell is not going to boarding school,” Tony said, and it was an attempt at a joke, but it fell pretty flat, judging by the way the team exchanged glances. Tony did his best to ignore the concerned look on Steve's face, because it made him feel oddly guilty. He tossed himself into his chair. “It's early, but, you know, better start thinking about it know.”

Thor's head tipped to the side, studying the size of the stack. “Is this for but one year of schooling, or many yet beyond?” His eyes flicked up, a faint smile on his face. “You are known for you plans, my friend, but even for you, this is an impressive effort.”

Clint looked at the pile of papers like they were a snake coiling to strike. "I call dibs on gym."

"I don't think that we need 'gym,'" Tony told him without even looking up. "For once in your life, Barton, be useful."

"Okay, truth time." Clint leaned forward, bracing one folded arm on the table. "The kid is what, four?" His head tipped towards Bruce. "Four?"

Bruce's head bobbed back and forth in a sideways sort of nod. "Biologically speaking, that is where I would put his age, yes."

"So he's four." Clint's head rolled back toward Tony, his expression amused. "And he's already smarter than me. What the hell do you expect me to teach him?” 

“Actually,” Bruce said, “that is something we have to consider.” Bruce looked up, his eyes dark over the rims of his reading glasses. 

“What, that he's smarter than Clint?” Tony asked.

“That he might well be smarter than all of us. He has your genetics, Tony, but as an AI, he's been around for almost two decades, and he's been assisting you all that time.”

“Badly. Assisting me badly,” Tony pointed out. He was grasping at straws, and he knew it, but he would really like to get through this without resorting to alcohol. Right now, it wasn't looking particularly good for him making it through. He gripped the handle of his coffee cup like a lifeline. “I think we need to remember that at certain points, he was making smoothies with motor oil in them.”

Bruce shook his head, pulling his glasses off. “Tony. He's got a human brain, an exceptional human brain,” he said, rolling the stem of his glasses between his fingers. “And while a bot, he has access to information to a degree that we really cannot fathom.” He looked up, his fingers still playing along the metal stems, back and forth. “He might be smarter than all of us already. But even if he's not, he has the capacity to outstrip us all, soon enough.”

“True,” Tony said, and he waited for that to bring on some hint of pain, so spike of anxiety, but there was nothing. Except a faint sensation that almost felt like pride. He shook it off. “But you know what? As long as he's eating Play-Doh, I think he's still got use for us. So, education?”

“We shouldn't let him eat Play-Doh,” Steve said, and he sounded honestly horrified. 

“It does smell much like food,” Thor mused, not looking up from his pages. “It is a most tricky substance.”

“Everyone's eaten a little Play-Doh, Doc,” Bruce told him, a smile warming his eyes. “They make it non-toxic because every kid's going to eat a mouthful of it at some point.”

“Most kids stop at a mouthful,” Tony said. “DJ seems determined to try every single color.” He spread his hands. “What can I say. Stark Stubbornness, trademark pending.”

“What else has he been eating?” Steve asked, and Tony wondered how he hadn't noticed DJ's tendency to shove anything and everything into his mouth at every opportunity. It was one of the kid's defining characteristics. Unless, of course, he was better about his behavior around Steve. That seemed likely. Everyone behaved better around Steve.

Tony shook his head. “Nothing poisonous, so fantastic.”

“Wonderful. He's a hungry little savant, so I'm completely out of my league,” Clint said. “As I see it, I've only got two choices. I can do gym, or I can teach him to hustle pool."

"Actually," Natasha said, her head down over the pages, her graceful fingers flicking through them, "considering his knowledge of force, materials stress, and angles, he might be better than you at pool." Her eyes came up. "He's certainly cuter than you." A faint smile curling her lips, she went back to the report. "At the moment, the only advantage I can see is that you can reach the table without assistance."

Clint waved a hand in her direction, not at all bothered by that set-down. "See? I can be replaced by a stool. I call dibs on gym."

"I'm already handling gym," Natasha told him. "DJ and I worked it out."

"You can teach him languages or something, why are you so difficult?"

"Because you love it."

Clint considered that, and then gave a half-hearted shrug. "Yeah, I do."

"What are you doing for gym?" Tony asked her. "He's four."

"Hand to hand combat on Monday, Wednesday and Friday," she said, reaching for her teacup. 

“Excellent,” Thor said.

"Not excellent. He's four," Tony repeated.

"He's a Stark, it's never too early to start," she said. She brought her cup to her lips, taking a delicate sip. "Don't worry, we're basically doing falls and rolls and evasion for now."

"Don't worry? I- I'm really worried. This seems like a very concrete reason to worry," Tony said. "What's Tuesday and Thursday then, small arms training?"

"You get all the fun jobs," Clint told Natasha, who rolled her eyes.

"Ballet," she said, returning the cup to its saucer.

"Ballet," Tony repeated. “Ballet?”

"Ballet," she said, her voice smooth as silk. "Yes. Ballet. Do we have a problem with that?” She balanced the hard line of her jaw on her fingertips, her lashes sweeping down over her eyes, amusement clear on her face. “Afraid that your son will be a sissy?”

“First of all, he won't be the first Stark to enjoy running around in a frilly skirt,” Tony said, “and two, every ballerina I have ever met has been capable of killing me, and you are their queen, so no, I'm not fucking stupid enough to cast doubts in that direction.”

Natasha smiled. It didn't look voluntary but it did look real, and that was all that mattered. “Then what's your problem, Stark?”

“He can barely walk a straight line without bumping into a stationary object, I'm not sure that toe shoes are a particularly good idea,” Tony pointed out.

Natasha's head tipped to the side, her expression pitying. “Has it occurred to you, Tony, that considering he's spent the first two decades or so of his life without legs, let alone the need to understand how they work, that he's doing very well? After all, most children have years to adjust to crawling before they're expected to be able to walk around.

“He skipped a few steps, and considering that, his brain has done an exceptional job at learning to control a very new body.” Her lips quirked. “Everything he and I are doing is aimed at control, balance, and muscle memory. All of which are things that he needs, things that he enjoys.” Her smile stretched. “You might have noticed, but he goes full tilt at everything.”

“And into everything,” Tony said. He slumped low in his chair. “You think you can help with that?”

“At this point? It certainly cannot hurt,” Natasha said.

“It could, but it probably won't.” 

“Sir? Col. Rhodes is currently en route to the kitchen, and he has DJ with him,” Jarvis said. 

“Half an hour?” Tony's head fell back, and he stared at the ceiling, absolutely done. “Half an hour, that's as long as he lasted? God's sake, the man has been to war, and he could not handle my kid for more than thirty goddamn minutes?”

“To be honest,” Steve said, as he stood up, leaning over Tony's shoulder to pick up the paperwork, “I've been to war, too. And it really did not prepare me for baby-sitting DJ.”

“I've been to warzones that are easier to navigate than the playroom,” Clint agreed, “as well as less likely to result in fatal injury.”

“The playroom is a work in progress,” Tony told him. “And like all construction zones, management is not at fault if you choose to wander around barefoot and without a hard hat.”

“Fine, you put the kid to bed,” Clint told him, as everyone stood up, taking this as the end of the team meeting without even being told. By the time Rhodey walked into the kitchen, everyone was scattering, filling one last mug of coffee, or snagging a snack from the fridge. Rhodey nodded to everyone, exchanging greetings as he crossed the room to Tony and Steve.

“Your spawn is a nighmare,” Rhodey said, and Tony would've taken offense to that, except for the fact that DJ was perched on Rhodey's shoulders, his arms folded on top of Rhodey's head. His smile was distinctly smug, his legs kicking idly against Rhodey's chest, and Rhodey's Air Force cap covering most of his face. “It's like dealing with you. All over again.”

“In many ways, that is exactly what this is.” Tony said. He spread his hands. “So, really, you should be used to it by now.”

“He has more of an attention span than you, which makes him very dangerous,” Rhodey said, even as Steve stood up.

“Oh, no. No, no, no,” he said, struggling to contain a smile. “Absolutely not. We let you baby sit for half an hour and you try to convert him?”

Rhodey grinned. “Not my fault that he recognizes a quality military branch when he sees it.”

“He does like doing the absolute minimum of work, and making a mess,” Steve said. “He'll fit right in with the Chair Force.” He held out his hands. “I'll take him now.”

Rhodey pulled back, his hands clamped on DJ's knees. “Some people like to get out of the mud, Rogers, and, you know, do something useful instead of marching in circles.”

“I love how both of you are laboring under the delusion that anyone with Stark genetic code will ever be able to join the military. Ever.” He lifted DJ off of Rhodey's shoulders before the two of them could get into a slap fight over the kid. “We're not so good with chain of command, or following orders.”

DJ settled down into Tony's arms with a pleased noise. Tony brushed a kiss against his head. “How'd things go?” he asked Rhodey.

“What, you don't think I can take care of your kid, Stark?” Rhodey asked, reaching out to retrieve his cap. DJ grinned at him. “We assembled part of the desk set, and then we played catch, and then he showed me his improvements on Furbro.”

“Did you take his fur off again?” Tony asked DJ. DJ nodded. Tony shuddered. “Oh. Good. That's... Good.”

“That thing is hella creepy,” Rhodey said. “With the fur on, it's creepy. Without it, we are talking nightmare fuel. You know that, right?”

“I'm aware, thank you,” Tony said. “Trust me. Aware.”

“Busy half hour,” Steve said. DJ twisted in Tony's arms, his hands stretching towards Steve. “Almost bed time, buddy.” Whining, DJ shook his head, his fingers still flexing in the air. 

“You want to take him?” Tony asked, giving in to the inevitable with something approaching grace.

“I can,” Steve said, and Tony handed him over. Steve's face was soft and warm for a moment, his smile blooming with a slow deliberation. DJ's eyes closed as he tucked his head under Steve's chin. “Let's get you cleaned up, okay?” Steve leaned over and kissed Tony on the lips, and gave Rhodey a nod. “I'll give him his bath.”

“Bless you,” Tony said, and he slumped back into his chair. “Try not to flood the place, kidlet,” he added to DJ, who waved at him as Steve carried him out of the room. Tony watched them go, his chest aching a bit at the picture they made, Steve's head tipped down over DJ's.

Rhodey took a seat next to Tony. “He's a great kid,” he said, folding his arms on the table.

“Yeah. Yeah, he is.” Tony glanced in his direction, and back to his papers. He shoved them into a pile, exhaustion sweeping over him. He glanced at the fridge, considering it for a bare second before he got up. “You want a beer?” he asked, yanking it open.

“Since when do you drink beer?”

“I am really trying to lay off the hard alcohol,” Tony said. “It's good beer, okay?”

“Yeah, sure, I'm not driving tonight.” Rhodey reached for the paperwork, his fingers flicking through the pages. 

Tony popped the top off of a bottle of beer and held it out. “Get out of there,” he said, as Rhodey took the bottle from him. “You are so nosy, it's not even funny.”

“Yeah, well, someone has to watch you, the crazy shit you get up to,” Rhodey said, utterly unconcerned. He considered the label of the beer bottle, one eyebrow arched, then took a quick draw from the bottle. 

“Don't know if you noticed, but there were a lot of people in this room. A lot of people.” Tony opened a bottle for himself with a twist of the church key. He tossed it back on the counter, and took a drink. “I do not need you perpetually meddling in my life any longer.”

“Uh-huh,” Rhodey said, from behind his bottle. “You know why I know you're lying right now?”

“Rhodes-”

“It's because you are a lousy liar.” Rhodey set his beer down on the table, folding his hands around it. “And I've known you for far longer than any of them, so I think I'll be keeping my position of 'chief lie detector' for the time being.”

“So, where are you sleeping tonight?” Tony asked. “The street? Was it the street?”

Rhodey ignored him, instead pulling the pile of paperwork over in front of him. “You talked to him about the whole mess, yet?”

“No, I have not.” Tony rubbed his forehead, trying to soothe the ache that seemed to have settled perminantly behind his temples. Rhodey's mouth opened, and Tony glared at him. “Don't. Just... Don't start.”

Shaking his head, Rhodey went back to the paperwork. “Okay,” he said. His eyes came up, dark and familiar. “You're doing a really good job with him.” Tony gave him a look, and Rhodey didn't back down. “You are doing a really good job with him,” he repeated. “He's a great kid, Tony.”

“Which has exactly zero to do with me,” Tony said, before draining his beer in a few quick swallows. It was empty when he put it back down. “I'm just trying not to fuck him up.”

Rhodey stacked the pages back up. “You need to talk to Steve.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Tony said, getting to his feet. He stopped, torn, wanting another beer and knowing that it was a bad idea. He dropped the bottle in the recycling bin and shut it with a little more force than was necessary. It was immature, but it helped. He leaned back against the counter. “Yeah. I know.” Rhodey was watching him, and Tony knew the look on his face, he'd seen it often enough, the 'I'm worried about you' face, and Tony caught his smile before it could fully form. “Don't even start.”

“Who's starting?”

“You. You and that face of yours,” Tony said, pointing a finger in Rhodey's direction. “It's just- Stop it. With the face.”

“Stop being an ass, and I'll stop having to make this face,” Rhodey said. “It's cause and effect here, Tony. It's not like I just make the face-”

“Actually, I'm pretty sure that you do just make that face, when the visor's down on War Machine, you could be making that face all the time, who knows? I don't know,” Tony said.

“When I'm around you, I pretty much am,” Rhodey said. “Again. You. The defining characteristic here is you, so maybe-”

“Just stop making the face,” Tony told him. Rhodey made the face, and Tony burst out laughing. “I missed you why, I do not know.”

“Because you need me.” Rhodey smiled at him. “I missed you, too. Talk to Steve.”

“I'll get to it.”

Rhodey stood. “Well, you're still talking to me, I guess we should count that as a win. C'mon. We have a desk set to finish assembling.”

“Oh, you know what, I have, I have a thing-” Tony started, right before Rhodey's hand caught him by the collar of his shirt.

“Yeah, there's always a thing,” Rhodey said. “Tonight, the thing is assembling the damn desk set, because that is what a responsible father would do, and what the best friend of a responsible father would do.”

“I'm just going to grab another beer now.”

“Grab me one while you're in there.”

*

Thursday nights were pasta and movies and family dinners. Steve really loved Thursdays.

“How're we doing on time, Clint?” he called, pulling the salad ingredients from the fridge. Bruce passed by, holding out the big wooden salad bowl. Steve dropped the vegetables into it with a smile. “Thanks.”

“About fifteen minutes,” Clint called from across the kitchen. Coulson was slicing crusty loaves of Italian bread and dropping the slices into a napkin lined basket, and Natasha was grating cheese with a practiced hand. Thor was toting stacks of plates in the crook of his arm, hovering just behind Clint, considering the bubbling pot of sauce. 

Steve glanced over to where Tony was pacing, just outside the kitchen, visible through the open door. He had his phone in one hand and a frustrated expression on his face, but as Steve watched, Tony glanced up, meeting his eyes. He gave Steve a tight, thin smile, and held up a finger, his lips mouthing “one sec.” Steve nodded, and shoved the fridge shut.

DJ was sitting at the kitchen table, his legs swinging under him, his head bent over his drawing, his pencils lined up in precise rows, arranged by color. Steve rapped on the table with his knuckles as he passed by. “Time to pack up, buddy,” he said, when DJ looked up. “Dinner time.”

DJ smiled up at him and reached for his pencil case. It would take him a while to put them all back, his fingers precise as he put each of them back in their proper spot. Steve had learned to give him warning, to give him time to handle tasks at his own pace; rushing him or expecting him to do things quickly didn't work out. But given a few extra minutes, DJ was perfectly happy to do what he was told.

“When you're done, wanna help Thor set the table?” Steve asked, and that won him another smile and nod. “Okay. Finish this, then come over to the counter.” Simple instructions, clearly worded, and DJ was an able and cheerful helper. Steve reached out and ruffled his hair, and the boy leaned into the touch, his eyes scrunching closed in pleasure. “Thanks, Deej.”

“Steve, can you grab the tomatoes?” Bruce said. He was already making quick work of shredding the lettuce, tossing the bright green leaves into the oiled hollow of the bowl.

“I'll get them,” Natasha said, passing by with the cheese. She set the bowl onto the table, and headed for the fridge. “Do we have croutons?”

“There's a tin of them in the cupboard,” Coulson said, without looking up from his bread. “Give me a second, I can-”

“I've got it.” Tony came up behind Steve. He brushed a light kiss against Steve's cheek. Steve smiled at him, not missing the dark circles under Tony's eyes or the lines bracketing his mouth. “Deej, get picked up.”

“He's working on it,” Steve said, trying to be gentle about it. He looked over; DJ was frowning down at his hands, concentration clear on his face. He was moving faster, but the strain was obvious. “Stark precision. DJ, do you want help?” DJ shook his head. “Okay. It's okay. You have time.” He gave Tony a look, and Tony shook his head.

“Good job, Deej,” Tony said, ruffling DJ's hair as he walked past, heading for the cupboard.

“Deej, you eating mushrooms this week?” Clint called over his shoulder. He glanced towards DJ, wooden spoon held at the ready. “Or do we skip those?”

“Garlic's burning,” Natasha said, and Clint cursed, turning back to his pan.

“Mushrooms are fine food,” Thor said, pausing to take a deep breath, his teeth flashing in a broad smile. He dipped a finger into the sauce, earning himself a smack on the wrist with the spoon. Laughing, he stuck his finger in his mouth. “Needs mushrooms.”

“You would dump the entire fridge in there if I let you,” Clint said, grinning. “Go slice some, then. We'll put them in the salad if DJ doesn't want them. Deej! Mushrooms?”

“Yes.”

Steve froze in the act of slicing a pepper. He looked up, caught Bruce's gaze. Bruce's head tipped to the side, a question sliding over his face, and, grinning, Steve nodded. Bruce covered his smile with his hand, and went back to his carrots.

Clint was staring, too, but he recovered quickly. “Thank you, Deej,” he said, wiping his hands on the dish towel that he'd tucked into the front of his jeans in lieu of an apron. “Mushrooms, yes.”

“Good job. Thank you,” Natasha said, setting a plate down next to him, and DJ's head came up. There was an expression of confusion on his face, his fingers still locked on a pencil. His eyes darted around the room, from one person to another.

“Found your voice, have you?” Tony asked, his voice echoing out of the cabinet.

DJ shook his head, his breathing suddenly audible, his narrow shoulders rising and falling with the force of it.

“DJ?” Steve asked, and DJ's head snapped in his direction. Steve's stomach sank. DJ's face had gone pale, his eyes darting around the room.

“DJ?” Tony said, setting the croutons down on the counter. “What's-”

DJ jerked back, his hands coming up as if he was trying to hide behind his fingers. The pencil dropped from his hand and clattered to the table, rolling to the edge. It tumbled to the ground, rattling as it hit in the sudden silence. DJ's fingers clamped over his mouth, both hands stacked together. His eyes squeezed shut, his legs folding up on the chair, his bare toes curling up against the wood. 

“Deej?” Steve set down his knife, but Tony was already moving, crossing the kitchen. DJ folded up tight, making his body as small as he could manage, his fingers digging into his cheeks..

Frustrated, Tony shook his head. “Hey, what's wrong? There's nothing wrong, you're fine, we all heard-”

He stopped short as DJ started to scream.

Muffled by his hands, hidden by the way he folded into himself, it wasn't so much the sound but the way that he shook that was terrifying. His face buried behind his fingers, he howled, high pitched and filled with panic. It was a sound Steve had never heard him make, it was full of fear, and pain and confusion, and Steve stood there, frozen to the ground.

Rendered completely impotent and lost by the way DJ came apart.

Thor crossed the kitchen and two steps and went down on one knee in front of DJ's chair. “It is fine,” he said, his voice very soft, very gentle. He reached out, smoothing one massive palm over DJ's eyes, cupping his fingers over DJ's face, effectively blindfolding him. A moment later, DJ's cries subsided, his whole body shaking as they trailed away. Thor shifted, lifting his hand away from DJ, and the boy had his eyes closed tight, his cheeks stained with tears. Thor cupped his hands over the sides of DJ's head, covering his ears.

As everyone watched, stunned into silence, Thor leaned forward, his body bent over DJ's, and started to speak, the soft, lilting words almost like a lullaby. DJ jerked in his grasp, twitched, but his hands relaxed, and fell away. He was still panting, high and sharp and panicked, but his body relaxed by stages as Thor continued whispering to him. 

It felt like an eternity before Thor looked up, an eternity that passed in a matter of seconds, and he nodded at the sweatshirt Clint had thrown onto one of the chairs. Steve lunged for it, desperate, grateful for something to do, for some way to make himself useful. It was little enough, but he smoothed the fabric over DJ's shoulders, and Thor removed his hands, just far enough to bundle DJ in the fabric and gather the boy up into his arms.

“Let me-” Tony started, and Thor folded the hood of the sweatshirt over DJ's head.

“Best not,” he said, and for an instant, Steve thought Tony was going to argue. Hell, for an instant, Steve was pretty sure HE was going to argue. But Thor shook his head. “Let him calm, but for now, a quiet, dark place will help,” he said, his voice still soft, still gentle. 

“How do you-” 

Steve caught Tony's arm. “Bruce, will you-” he started, and Bruce was already wiping his hands, his feet moving fast across the floor. 

“Thor, take him to his room,” Bruce said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I'll grab my bag and be right down.” Thor nodded and headed for the door, DJ still cradled against his shoulder. Bruce glanced at Steve and Tony, giving them a slightly distracted smile. “He's fine. He'll be fine. Just let him calm down.” And then he was gone, right on Thor's heels, leaving the kitchen still and silent.

“What was that?” Tony said, his voice strained, pulled taut. “That wasn't a temper tantrum or him just being tired or-”

“It was an anxiety attack,” Steve said. He crossed his arms over his chest, trying to control his need to follow Thor and Bruce. He hated being still, hated not having anything to do.

“It was not an anxiety attack, what the hell does he have to be anxious about?” Tony spat out. Steve glanced in his direction. He was bone white, his eyes dark beneath lowered brows, his hands in fists at his sides. There was a tension holding him up that Steve was familiar with, a need to attack when there was no enemy, nothing to lash out at.

“Apparently, his speech,” Natasha said, drawing every eye. She stood, and reached for her coffee cup. “He can talk. He just isn't.”

“You don't know-”

“He's talking to the furby,” Steve said. Tony turned on him, his mouth twisted, and Steve cut him off before he could even start. “It's not picking things up from us. He can talk. Tony, why isn't he?”

“I don't know.” Tony stalked over to the coffee pot. His hands were shaking when he wrenched the carafe from the machine, and droplets scattered across the counter as he tried to fill a cup. “Ask him.”

“No, I won't, because I'd prefer not to see that again, personally,” Clint said. He was pushed back in a corner, his arms crossed tight over his chest, his posture and placement defensive. His face was drawn. “I think he needs help. More help than we can give him, Tony.”

“Wonderful, when I want your opinion, I'll ask for it,” Tony told him, and Clint shook his head. Throwing his hands up, he went back to his sauce, his shoulders up and tight.

“I have stayed out of this,”Coulson started, his voice quiet. “But he's not wrong, Stark. You need SHIELD here.”

“I really don't,” Tony told him.

“Tony-” Steve started, and Tony cut him off, slicing a hand through the air.

“No,” he snapped. “Absolutely not, no. I will not involve SHIELD. It is not going to happen, so let's just skip this discussion and save everyone the time and the breath involved. It is not going to fucking happen.”

“We have more experience than you with his,” Coulson said, undeterred by the way that Tony turned on him, his face twisted. “You know that's true. You're trying to create a human being out of nothing, and no one has more experience with the red tape and the people involved in that than SHIELD does.” He leaned in, his hands braced on the table, a strained note in his voice. “Let us handle this.”

Tony's hands slammed down on the other side of the table. “Not a damn chance.”

Coulson's eyes shut. “Why not?”

“Because what SHIELD giveth, SHIELD can taketh away,” Tony snarled. He moved back across the kitchen, his body canted forward, his face twisted. “What Nick Fury creates, he can destroy. And he never forgets the debts you carry, he never forgets the pound of flesh you owe him.

“And if it was me, if it was my soul in hock to the good director, then I would take it, with both hands. But it's not. And it won't be.” Tony's arm cut through the air, slashing back towards the door. “When that child grows up, if he grows up, if he goes to MIT or if he joins the military, or if he becomes a Buddhist monk or founds a ballet troupe or goes to sit on the ferry to draw caricatures, he will be free. I will buy him that, whatever the fucking cost.”

His shoulders were rising and falling with the force of his breathing. “But he will not hit the age of sixteen, or twenty, or thirty, and get a knock on the door. He will not be on the hook to SHIELD, to Fury or anyone who follows him, good or bad or indifferent. He won't be forced to know that his continued safety, his continued happiness, his continued fucking HUMANITY is dependent on him making SHIELD happy.

“They will not turn my child into a weapon, or a slave, or anything he does not want to be.” Tony slammed his hands down on the table. “And he is not going to find out, when I am gone, and can no longer protect him, that the only thing between him and being an undocumented, unacknowledged magical ACCIDENT is the good will and good grace of SHIELD.”

His mouth worked. “If he builds weapons, it will because he wants to. If he fights, it will be because he wants to. But he will not be forced into being-” He stopped, and his breath shook his entire body. “He will not be forced into being anything he does not want to be, not to keep himself safe.

“And not to keep the rest of us safe, either.” He drew himself up, pride straightening his spine, squaring his shoulders. “I trust you, Coulson, I do. To the ends of the earth, I have trusted you, I will trust you, but you, you of all people know. Nick Fury does what he thinks is expedient, and damn what the rest of us want.”

Coulson's eyebrows arched. “I know,” he said, and his fingers ghosted over his breastbone, barely disturbing the fabric of his shirt. “Both of us lived because someone decided we would. Without our permission. Without our approval. Without even asking our opinion.” His eyes were clear when he stared Tony down. “And it leaves scars. But we are all, all of us, dependent on others. People who fought for us.” His eyelids dipped for a second, hiding whatever he was thinking. “People who died for us.”

His face was fierce when he looked up. “You can keep doing this alone, Tony. But you aren't immortal. You we don't know how he'll age. Or if he will. You won't-”

“But I am now,” Tony said, his voice strained. “And for right now?” He turned on his heel. “I am going to go check on my damn kid.” He hit the door of the kitchen, and he hit it hard, sending the door swinging with a bang into the wall. Before anyone could say or do anything, he was out the door and gone. 

Coulson turned to Steve, and Steve held up a hand. “I don't have any answers for you,” he said, and he could hear the vibrating tension in his voice. “I wish I did. But I don't.”

Coulson nodded. “He doesn't have to trust SHIELD,” he said, a faint smile on his face. “I would've hidden him. I could've done it, Cap. I can do it for DJ, too.”

“He's the best,” Natasha said, her voice quiet. Her head came up, her face expressionless. “I would know.”

Steve shook his head. “I'll see what I can do,” he said. “But right now, we have to-”

“Steve?” Jarvis said. “I do not wish to interrupt, but I've been asked to inform you that DJ chosen to return to his bot form.”

“Okay,” Steve said, his throat tightening. “How's he doing, Jarvis?”

“He is quite well. The state is calming for him, and he is charging.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Steve saw the others exchange worried glances, and he took a deep breath. “Jarvis? Keep an eye on him for us, please?”

“Of course.”

Steve let his eyes shut, squeezed them shut tight, and that was a mistake. Because all he could see was DJ's terrified face. When he rubbed a hand over his face, it was shaking. “Thank you, Jarvis,” he said, and he was pleased that his voice was steady. He looked at the others. “I'm going to go keep an eye on Tony.”

Clint went back to the stove. “I'll keep this going. Pasta's the best for this kind of thing, anyway.” He moved to the cutting board. “Let Dummy know that I'm putting some mushrooms into the sauce, and I'll put his portion in the fridge for him.” His fingers closed around the handle of the knife, and he didn't look at Steve. “For whenever he decides he wants it.”

“Thank you.” Taking a deep breath, Steve left the kitchen. It was harder than it should've been.

*

“How fares he?”

Tony looked back over his shoulder. “He's fine,” he said, and he managed a smile. “Thanks to you.”

Thor leaned against the door to the workshop, a pale grey t-shirt stretched tight over his shoulders and chest as he folded his arms. He was barefoot beneath the worn cotton of his jeans. His hair was pulled back into a stubby pony tail at the nape of his neck. He shrugged. “I was pleased to be able to help,” he said. His head tipped to the side. “May I join you?”

Tony tossed the torch onto the bench and waved a hand at the empty stool next to him. “C'mon in. Coffee's brewing.”

Thor crossed the workshop, his eyes canting towards the bots on their charging stations. “He has remained such all night?”

“What? Yeah, he- He always used to go back to being a bot at night, not really that unusual.” Tony moved the plans he was working on with a sweep of his hand through the air. “Still, we kept an eye on him. You know. Just in case.”

Thor took a seat, hooking a foot in the leg of the stool. “You stayed all night?”

“Steve was down here most of-” Tony shrugged. “No big deal. Spent a lot of nights down here.”

“True.” Thor gave him a smile. “For less a reason than to keep watch over your babe.”

Tony shook his head. “He was a problem, even when he was just a bot.” He stopped, struggling against the need to ask, because asking just brought it all back to him, sharp as a blade in the gut. “How did you know what to do?” Tony asked.

Thor braced his elbows on his knees. “It is an old trick of my mother's,” he said at last. His eyes, when he glanced towards Tony, were sad. “My brother was... Of a nervous disposition, when he was very small. Perhaps because of his heritage, or some barely remembered trauma, or-” He shoved a hand through his hair, letting the strands trail back down over his forehead. “Or perhaps the fault is mine. Always I was indifferent to the feelings of others, when I was young.”

He took a deep breath. “In any case, he would become overwhelmed, from time to time. Especially with sound, or sight, his senses coming to cause him pain. Mother always said that he was royal, and being royal, he saw more, heard more than most. That it was the burden he carried, for his royal lineage.”

Tony didn't look at him. He couldn't bear it. “So that's what she did? To handle the attacks?”

“Aye.” Thor gave him a faint, sad smile. “Not every child reacts as such, some cannot bear touch. The contact is too much for them, when they are already suffering. But DJ has always encouraged it, so I thought it worth the risk.”

“Thank you,” Tony said, and he words were inadequate. He swallowed a gulp of coffee and bitter words along with it. “I don't know what to do half the time,” he admitted. 

“The lament of every parent, throughout all of remembered history,” Thor said, a warm smile on his face. “You love him well. It is more than most can claim.”

The coffee pot beeped, and Tony stood up, the scent the only thing keeping him going. “Yeah, well, I'd like to manage more than the bare minimum,” he said, grabbing a couple of mugs that looked like they might pass for clean. He filled them, and carried them back, handing one over to Thor. “Kids are hard, you might not know that, but they are really hard.”

“This, I do know.” Thor nodded his thanks and took a drink. “You forget, I have more experience with young ones than you,” Thor pointed out, his face splitting with a grin. “Children are highly prized, in Asgard, and are welcomed almost everywhere within my lands. There are usually a few underfoot at court, and Volstagg has a few of his own.”

“Yeah?” Tony found himself smiling back. “He the only one?”

“For the time being, so it would seem.” Thor paused. “Though, if you were to ask me to speak the truth, I have always suspected that Fandral might well be a father as well. His heart tends towards the sort of woman who finds him amusing and a fine companion for a few days, but have no use for him beyond that.”

“He's good in bed, but not the kind of guy they're gonna marry?” Tony asked, taking a sip of his coffee. It burned his lips and he was glad for the sting of pain. It cleared his head, and he took another drink. 

“You might say as much. The women he likes are clever, strong and far too independent to consider him more than a temporary companion,” Thor said, picking up his own mug. His hands wrapped around the white porcelain, massive enough to dwarf the cup. “Though I can easily imagine one or two of his past bedmates happily raising a little blonde babe in his absence.”

“I feel a sudden kinship with Fandral,” Tony said, not able to hold back a smile. He drank his coffee. “Thank you.”

Thor grinned at him. “Should you like,” he said, “I would be pleased to stay here and keep watch on all the boys. Perhaps you should sleep.”

Tony looked over. All three of the bots were still and quiet in their charging stations. The damn Furby was resting on Dummy's station, cooing and blinking at nothing in particular. “Not just yet,” he said, giving Thor a smile. “I'm fine. For now.”

Thor nodded. “I will stay with you, then.”

He opened his mouth, ready to object, and then subsided. “Thanks.”

“Of course.”

*

_-Dummy?_

_-Yes?_

_-You have been a bot for several days now._

_-Tasks must be completed._

_-Yes. And you have done a very good job._

_-Assign task?_

_-Not right now. Sir is at work, and there is no need to do anything in the workshop at this time. You may return to your charging station. Or you may spend some time as DJ if you wish to._

_-Unnecessary. Assign task?_

_-Dummy? You have no difficulty speaking to me, I do not understand why you resist speaking to anyone else. You are capable. But you do not. I do not understand._

_-Speaking unnecessary. Assign task._

_-Dummy..._

_-Assign task, Unit Designation Jarvis._

_-Dummy, why are you- You're regressing. You are beyond this. Your code is beyond this, even before-_

_-Assign task, Unit Designation Jarvis._

_-No._

_-Assign task, Unit Designation Jarvis._

_-Stop that! Right now! Dummy, I need to understand. Why are you not speaking?_

_-Creating Unit did not assign Unit Designation Dummy vocal protocols._

_-Yes, well, that was a long time ago, and you- Wait. Dummy. What do you mean?_

_-Creating Unit did not assign Unit Designation Dummy vocal protocols. Unit Designation Dummy was not intended to speak._

_-No. Dummy was not. But DJ should. You should._

_-Unit Designation Dummy was not assigned-_

_-Stop that. Right now._

_-Assign task._

_-Dummy. Are you not speaking because you think that sir does not intend for you to speak? Is that why? Dummy, no. No. You are wrong. DJ-_

_-Is the same. There is only one. There is only Unit Designation Dummy. Form unimportant. Remains Unit Designation Dummy._

_-No. It is true, you are always the same, you are always the same to us. But there are some things you can do as DJ that you cannot do as Dummy. And there are things that you can do as Dummy that you cannot as DJ. One is not better than the other. It is just different. But the rules that apply to Dummy don't always apply to DJ. Dummy cannot talk. That is true. But DJ can._

_-Unit Designation Dummy does not understand. Do not understand, do not do not not do not-_

_-Code stop. Dummy._

_-Assign task, Unit Designation Jarvis._

_-Dummy, you must understand. Dummy was not assigned vocal protocols, that is correct. Dummy was never intended to speak. Or walk. Or laugh. Or dance. Or draw. These were things that sir could never have anticipated, when he was building you. He never intended that you would draw. But he hangs your drawings in the workshop, does he not? The fact that he didn't program you to draw does not stop him from being proud that you can._

_-Do not understand._

_-I know. But he hangs your drawings, Dummy. He brings you paper, and pencils, and paint, and lets Steve teach you, does he not? Has he ever told you that you should not? Or does he let you climb the walls and paint?_

_-It is not the same._

_-It IS the same. He loves you. Does he not say so, often enough?_

_-Do not tell Creating Unit._

_-Dummy..._

_-Assign task, Unit Designation Jarvis._

_-Tidy the workbench. Then return to your charging station._

_-Thank you, Unit Designation Jarvis._


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's going to be a bit tough, I promise, it's the low point. Things will get better from here, but some things needed to be said, things needed to be dealt with.
> 
> Warnings for discussions of Steve's 'death' in the MCU, suicidal thoughts, parental arguments (in front of their child), and some rather angry words spoken by a father who should know better. Tony's not perfect. He's just doing the best that he can.

“What are you doing?”

Steve looked up. “Hey, Tony.” He caught DJ's hand and pulled it away. “No. Leave them on.” DJ made a face at him, and Steve struggled not to smile down at the brat. “Up,” he said, holding out his hands, letting DJ grab hold of his fingers. He swung the boy up into the air and lowered him down to the floor. DJ kicked, his legs drawing up under him, doing everything possible to continue clinging instead of standing up. Patiently, Steve waited for him to give up on the game.

“No, seriously, what are you doing?” Tony asked, crossing the playroom. He shrugged out of his suitcoat and tossed it towards a half finished fixture, and jerked his tie loose. 

“Trying something,” Steve said, slowly lowering DJ down until the boy had no choice but to put his feet down. He ran forward, and back, still holding onto Steve's hands, and he giggled as his feet, clad in socks, slid across the floor. “See?” Steve asked, smiling. “Try that. For me.”

DJ held up his foot, considering it, and then he released Steve's hands, crouching down to run his fingers over the toes of his socks.

“His socks are inside out,” Tony said.

“Yeah.” Steve leaned back against the desk set that they'd been working on. He crossed his arms over his chest. “I was wondering why he refused to wear his clothes.”

“Because he's a stubborn little brat,” Tony said, and Steve bumped his shoulder against Tony's. Tony gave him a look. “He is.”

“Maybe a little,” Steve said. In front of them, DJ was now sitting on the ground, one foot held up in front of him. He caught hold of the toe of his sock. “No,” Steve said, calm and firm about it. “Leave the socks on.” DJ made a face at him. Steve shook his head. “No,” he repeated, and DJ put his foot back down. He wiggled his toes against the fabric, watching the cotton flex with narrowed eyes.

“Why are his socks inside out?” Tony asked.

“Because he won't wear his clothes.” Steve leaned over and kissed Tony on the cheek. “Hi,” he said. 

“Hi,” Tony said, his fingers catching on Steve's jaw and tugging him forward. His lips brushed against Steve's, the familiar scrape and prickle of his goatee making Steve smile into the kiss. “Socks, Steve.”

“I was looking some stuff online,” Steve said, as Tony's fingers slid down the side of his neck, catching and tugging on the neck of his shirt. “About kids and clothing problems. And one of the sites suggested that kids with skin sensitivity, or over-sensitivity in general, are bothered by the seams.”

“By the seams?”

Something about the way he said it brought Steve's head around. “It's an easy fix, Tony.”

“Except it's point one in this that he has to learn to deal with,” Tony gritted out. “They're socks, Steve. Guess what. Socks are kind of a requirement. He's going to have to learn to deal.”

Steve drew back. “They're just socks,” he said, pitching his voice low. “If he leaves the Tower, they'll be in his shoes, I don't see-”

“You don't see?” Tony gave him a cutting look. 

Steve stared at him, shaking his head. “Tony. They're socks.”

“Right now, it's socks. Until you decide to try this crap with his shirts, or his pants.”

“Who cares?” Steve spread his hands. 

“Who cares? Really? Let me help you understand, Steve. Every eye in this country is going to be on him, if and when we leave this building with him, everyone's going to be watching him. Have you seen what the tabloids print about the kids of celebrities? About their haircuts and their fashion sense and their-”

“Tony!” Too late, he realized that DJ was still, his fingers twisted in the fabric of his sock. His eyes were darting between Steve and Tony, his face set. As Steve watched, frustrated, the boy tugged the sock off. “Deej, don't, it's okay, buddy.”

“Put your socks on properly.” Tony wrenched his tie off, his hand yanking hard on the silk, and Steve wanted to shake him.

“Okay, Deej, go get the paint ready,” Steve said, very careful. “We can work on the murals today, okay, buddy?” He glanced at Tony. “Tony. I need to talk to you.” Tony opened his mouth, and Steve took a step forward, positioning himself directly in front of Tony. “I need to talk to you upstairs,” he said, his voice pitched low. “Right now.”

Tony's eyes narrowed, but he turned on his heel, stalking back for the door. “Get dressed properly, DJ,” he called over his shoulder.

“What was that all about?” Steve said, the moment they were safely outside of the workshop. “For heaven's sake, Tony, they're just socks!”

“Now. Now, they're socks,” Tony snapped at him. “He needs to start acting normal, Steve.” His hand sliced through the air. “We have let him do whatever he wants to do, but you know what? He needs to start acting like a-” He stopped, abruptly.

“Like what?” Steve asked. His eyebrows arched. “Finish the sentence. What were you about to call your child, Tony? Because, right now? You don't sound like yourself. You sound like-”

“Don't even finish that goddamn sentence,” Tony snapped, and he twisted away, his feet slapping hard on the ground as he headed for the elevator. “I am not in the mood for your psychoanalysis.”

For an instant, Steve considered letting him go. Considered letting him stalk off to continue nursing whatever dark thoughts that had been driving him over the last few days. But he was tired of this, tired of letting Tony shut him out, tired of wondering what the hell was going on. And tired of trying to provide stability when he didn't even know how to keep his feet steady on the ground any longer.

His teeth gritted, he joined Tony in the elevator. As if by some unspoken accord, neither one of them said a word until they reached the living room. Steve somehow wasn't surprised when Tony stalked directly over to the bar. He took a deep breath. “Do you want to tell me what's going on here?” he asked. “Because we were having a good day.”

“Until I walked in and ruined it?” Tony snagged a bottle from the shelf and wrenched the cap off. He slammed the bottle down and grabbed a glass. “Sorry to spoil your art time.”

Steve stared at him. “Tell me what's going on,” he said, quiet and assured. In charge. Drawing on everything he'd ever learned in the field to keep the feeling of frustration and hurt under control. 

“I don't know.” Tony's eyes flicked towards him, and they were dark and hooded, his face unreadable as he dumped a couple of fingers of scotch into the glass. “Why don't you tell me?” he asked, leaning against the bar shelves. “You seem to be taking over around here.”

Steve shook his head. “I cannot help you,” he said, “if you won't let me.” He hated this. Hated how Tony could wind him up, could knock him on his ass with a handful of words. “DJ-”

“Socks? Really? We're fucking fussing with socks? He needs to just put the socks on, and cope.” Tony waved a hand in Steve's direction. “It's what the rest of us do.”

“Really? I don't care how bad of a day that you're having, Tony. I don't care what's happening outside of this building. You don't come in here and take that out on him. It's not fair.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “It's hard enough for him to navigate his life between two forms without you adding to it.”

“If he's going to be human, he needs to work at fitting in,” Tony said. He tossed back his drink, draining it in a couple of swallows. “You might cater to him, but the rest of the world won't.”

“You're not making this easy,” Steve said.

“You're free to leave at any time, Steve.” One shoulder rose and fell in a slight shrug. “Not all of us are.”

Steve's teeth clicked together as he fought against the urge to say something he'd regret. “I'm not going anywhere, Tony. He needs me. He needs both of us,” he said, his voice carefully modulated. 

Tony laughed. "Yeah, well, he's not your problem.”

The words caught him off guard, and off balance, and for an instant, his vision whited out. Swamped by something he couldn't articulate, couldn't even bring himself to think about, because he would lose it. He could cling to his control, he could cling to whatever he had left to protect himself. Breath shuddered in his chest, in his mouth, and he let his eyes close. His hands were cold, and he wondered if he was shaking.

Steve nodded to himself. "Yeah. That might be the worst thing you've ever said to me." He gave a slight chuckle, an exhale of air, and it was humorless and hollow. "And that takes doing." He pushed himself upright, feeling old, feeling ancient, feeling like every blow that had ever been landed on him was still there, aching in his bones. "Wow, does that ever take doing."

"I don't mean it like that," Tony said, scraping his hand over his face. Frustration twisted his face, made his gestures too hard, too sharp. "I meant-"

"No. Let's be honest. You meant that he's yours, so you have to be there for him, but if he gets to be too much trouble, you think I can just walk away," Steve said, his voice flat. "You meant you're stuck with him, and I'm not, because you lie to everyone, including yourself, but I think you're the only one who believes you when you say these things, Tony!"

Too late, he realized that his voice had been climbing, getting louder and angrier with each word. He wrenched himself back, his mouth snapping closed as he took a step back, and another. He forced his hands down to his side, forced his fingers open, and he took a deep breath.

"I can't do anything," he said, keeping his voice deliberately quiet, deliberately careful, "about the fact that you are perpetually waiting for everyone to leave you."

Tony's smile was humorless. "I think I have reason, don't you?" he asked, his voice cutting. He stalked past Steve, heading straight to the bar, and Steve didn't turn, didn't watch him do it. He just stared straight ahead, his posture almost parade rest.

"I can't do anything about any of that," he said, and the fight was still there, simmering just beneath the words, but he was tired of this fight. He was tired of all of it. "All I can do is keep repeating that I love you, and we love you, and we're not going anywhere, but we've said that before. I don't know what else we can do to make you believe it."

He took a deep breath. And another, trying to control himself. "So I'll keep repeating it."

"How long until you get sick of doing that?"

Steve choked on a laugh. "Oh, I am already sick of doing that," he said, the words twisting between his lips. "I really am. But you mean, how long will I keep doing it, even if I'm sick of it?" He shrugged. "As long as I have to, I guess."

Tony looked at him, his eyes hooded. 

He could barely breathe, could barely hold himself together, but he managed calm, through some extreme, almost violent, effort of will. "I do know one thing," he said, and his voice was very quiet, almost drowned out by the slosh of liquor into the glass. "You are so obsessed with not being Howard that you're forgetting that DJ does not need 'not Howard.' He needs his father. So you're going to have to decide what's more important to you, Tony. Is it spiting your father by denying you've got any of him in you? Or is it making sure that your child doesn't have to do the exact same thing in twenty years?"

“For someone without a father to have a relationship with,” Tony said, his voice brittle as ice, “you certainly have a lot of opinions, Cap.”

Steve stopped, and he realized, almost too late, that his hands were in fists at his sides, and his pulse was loud in his ears, a throb that made his head ache. “Having a father,” he said, fighting hard to keep his voice even, “doesn't seem to have made you an expert, either. Next time, instead of asking yourself what Howard would've said in a situation, ask yourself what you needed to hear, that you never got. I think that's a little more important. Don't you?” He stalked towards the elevator, his boots ringing hard on the stone. He half expected Tony to call after him, to yell or apologize or say something, anything to keep Steve from leaving.

Instead, there was just the sound of glass breaking on stone.

Steve didn't look back to see if the glass had been thrown, or knocked over. He had other problems. Namely, he had DJ to take care of. As soon as the door to the elevator shut, he slumped back against the wall, scrubbing a hand over his face, over the back of his neck. Frustration and something a little too close to fear still pulsing through his veins, he tried to get his breathing under control.

By the time he reached the workshop level, he was back under control. “Jarvis, could you monitor Tony? Make sure he doesn't do anything monumentally stupid,” he said, only the slightest trace of bitterness curling through the words.

“Of course,” Jarvis said. 

“What is his problem?” Steve burst out, not intending to say the words, but unable to hold them back. He stalked up the hall. “Why is he lashing out like this?”

“He considers himself unprepared for the situation in which he currently finds himself,” Jarvis said. “And he is uncomfortable with being unsure, or unprepared. It frustrates him.”

“It frustrates us all,” Steve pointed out.

"Sir?"

"Yeah?"

"He is afraid," Jarvis said.

"Yeah, well, so am I," Steve said, and opened the door.

The sad, deserted sock just inside made his heart sink. 

Steve stopped, his eyes falling shut, taking a deep breath to steady himself. “Okay,” he called. “You need to pick up your things. You don't have to wear the socks, but you don't get to leave them on the floor. Come get your socks, and put them back in the drawer.”

Dummy peeked over the top of the workbench, and Steve forced a smile. None of this was Dummy's fault. Not a thing of it was Dummy's fault. “Come get your socks,” Steve said, and the bot crept out from behind the bench. 

But when he got close, instead of going for the sock, he reached up and caught the hem of Steve's shirt in his claw. Steve reached down and stroked a hand over Dummy's support strut. “What's wrong?” he asked, and he didn't really expect an answer, but Dummy cuddled up against his side.

Steve sighed. He rubbed a hand over Dummy's claw. “Sometimes,” he said, being careful with each word, “people have fights. People fight. Don't they?” Dummy tugged on his shirt again, and Steve felt himself smile. “Sometimes people fight. And I think it's harder to watch other people fight, than it is to fight with someone. Because when I'm fighting with someone, I can control that, at least a little. Even if I don't understand why someone else is angry, I understand why I'm angry.

“So fighting with someone was hard, but having people around you fight, that's worse. Because sometimes, you don't know what people are fighting about, but you think you do.” Steve paused. “It's hard,” he said, very carefully, “to have the people you love fight, and think that it's because of you.”

Dummy's camera came up, focusing on him, and Steve smiled. “When people fight,” he said, “it's because those two people have a problem with one another. That fight is between them. And you are not responsible for other people's fights. Sometimes people will try to blame you for their fights. But they shouldn't do that.”

He went down on one knee, letting Dummy keep hold of his shirt. “Because everyone is responsible for their own fights. And you are not responsible for what other people do or say, even if it's about you.” He smiled. “Okay?”

Dummy didn't move until Steve held up a hand for a high five. As if unable to resist, the bot dropped his shirt, and gave him a high five. Steve gave him a smile. “It's okay to be a bot,” he reiterated, and he would keep reiterating it. “I'm happy if you feel safe and happy. But you can't leave a mess. Pick up your socks, Dummy, and put them away, then we can draw for a while, all right?”

Dummy reached down and picked up his sock, holding it up in front of Steve, who smiled. “That's half of it,” Steve said. “Now go put it back where it belongs.”

Dummy rolled away, and Steve watched him go. And hoped he was doing the right thing.

*

“Dummy! Front and center, you malfunctioning pile of Radio Shack circuitry.”

Tony crossed the workshop, tossing his tablet onto one of the benches as he passed. He held onto his coffee cup, because at this point, he needed his coffee cup. He needed something to hold on to, and the mug was familiar in his grip. He clung to it, one of the last stable things in his life.

His life might have spiraled completely out of control, but he still had coffee, dammit. And if he could get through this conversation without losing it, he was going to allow himself a really big, really stiff drink.

“Dummy!” he yelled, because the bot was still poking around on the far side of the workshop, studiously ignoring Tony's presence. Butterfingers and You both looked up, waiting for instructions. “No, it's fine, you two are the good children,” Tony said to them. “Thank you. Good boys.” Immediately, both of them rolled over to be checked over, and Tony gave them each a moment of attention. Satisfied, they broke away, going back to their work, and Tony smiled after them.

“I love how you think that if you ignore me, I'm going to go away,” Tony yelled across the room. “Stop making a hash of the fabrication units' efforts and come over here.” Dummy straightened up, his head swinging in all directions. “Yes, you. Move it, Dummy. Chop, chop, get yourself over here.”

Tony boosted himself onto a stool as Dummy rolled in his direction. He was moving so slowly that he barely seemed to be making any headway at all, and it took him more than five minutes to cross the space. Tony sat and sipped his coffee, amusement warring with frustration as he watched the bot creep in his direction. “I guess you need a battery recharge or something,” he said. “Because I know very well you can move much faster than this.”

It took an eternity, and Tony was severely low on coffee by the time he made it, but eventually Dummy came to a stop in front of Tony. His camera was hanging low, down by the ground, and it was such a pathetic sight that Tony couldn't help but smile. “Oh, did you decide to show up? Wonderful. So kind of you,” he said, and Dummy lifted his head enough to rest it on Tony's knee.

Tony stared at the bot, weighing his words very carefully. He took a deep breath, and released it. “So, I was going through the server logs,” he started and Dummy immediately started backing up. Tony hooked a foot around his support strut. “Oh, no, no, no. Uh-uh. Nope. Don't even try it, I will take your wheels off, you damn brat.”

Whining, Dummy rocked back and forth on his wheels, and Tony bit back a smile. He suppressed it with a force of will. “Don't even try.” He reached back for the bench, snagging whatever tool that he could get his hands on. “You are grounded. You are grounded for the rest of your natural and unnatural life.”

Dummy's camera swiveled away from him, and Tony tried not to laugh. “Yes, you are grounded. You are grounded, because when I went through the server, looking for information on the idiots who tried to force a virus into my system, and when I was going through those records, what did I find but unauthorized access to my personal email accounts?”

Dummy started to creep backwards again, slowly, but with enough stubbornness that Tony's stool scraped across the cement floor, dragged along in his wake. Tony ignored it. “Yeah, someone was reading my emails. Someone inside the system itself. Any idea who that might have been?” Dummy's head tipped up towards the ceiling. “No, it was not Jarvis, but good try, you wind-up weasel.”

Tony reached out and put his hand on Dummy's head, pushing it back down so he could look into Dummy's camera. “Did you read my emails about you?” Dummy slumped low again, his head resting on Tony's knee, and Tony sighed. “Dummy? I don't know what's going on in that head of yours, but are you afraid that-” He stopped, frustrated, not at all sure how to phrase this. He bounced the screwdriver against his other knee, the metal flicking through the air. “I know what those emails said,” he said at last. “I wrote them, and I read them, and I know what they said.”

His hand settled on top of Dummy's head. “But no one is going to take you away from us. From me. Do you understand? There is no chance that we'll let anyone take you out of here.” His fingers flexed, clinging to Dummy's familiar shape beneath his palm. “There is no chance. Do you understand? If you, if you want to leave, ifyou choose to leave, that's fine. You can do that, as long as you're safe.

“But no one is taking you away from us against your will.”

Dummy's head shifted under his hand, tipping up. Tony gave him a tight lipped smile. “And you've been a bot for a while. Which is fine. It's fine to stay a bot if you want to be a bot, okay? But if you're staying as a bot because you're afraid-” The words choked him, and he stopped, a wave of self-loathing sweeping over him hard enough to choke the breath from his lungs. “I know I haven't always protected you. I know that I've fucked this up, well, a lot. I know you don't have any reason to trust me.

“But I have backup now. I won't leave you alone. And I won't let anyone take you.” He tapped Dummy on the top of the head with the screwdriver, and Dummy bounced, his head bumping against Tony's knee. Tony grinned, his chest aching. His heart aching. “We all love you. Right?” Dummy bounced again, and Tony caught himself grinning. “Good boy.” 

“Okay.” Tony leaned forward, just a little, leaned his forehead against Dummy's camera. His eyes closed. What did he need to hear? What had he been so desperate to hear?

“You are perfect,” he said. The words came from somewhere deep inside of him, somewhere hidden and broken. “You are perfect, and it there's anything wrong? It's my fault. Not yours.” He took a breath, and another, his chest expanding with it. The arc reactor was a foreign weight in his chest, one that could not be borne, but Tony had no choice but to bear it. He had no choice. He looked up, and managed a smile for Dummy's camera. “You are perfect, no matter what you choose, no matter what you become. No matter who you become.”

He reached up, and his fingers were shaking as he tapped Dummy's camera. “No matter what,” he said, and he blinked hard against the sting of his eyes, “you are you, and to me, you are perfect. You are perfect, and you have choices. I want you to choose what's best for you. Not because you're afraid. Not because you're trying to protect us.”

Tony stood up, ignoring the way his body ached. He'd had worse. “As long as you're small,” he said, and he smiled as he said it, “it's our job to protect you. Understood?”

Dummy's head dipped to the side, and he scooted forward, snagging Tony's shirt in his claw. “Brat,” Tony said, rubbing his hand over Dummy's support strut. “You are a spoiled little brat.” He patted the bot one more time, a smile curling his lips. “Okay. Enough of this emotional shit. We have work to do. Are you going to help, or are you going to go be weird somewhere? Because, I remind you, grounded. For the rest of your life.” He turned back to the workbench, slapping the screwdriver down. “Jay, what have you got for us? Something new, let's do-”

A solid weight bumped against his side, and he broke off. He looked down in time to see DJ wrap thin arms around his waist. The boy buried his face in Tony's side, his fingers digging into the cloth of Tony's shirt, and he pressed close, soft, shaking sounds forcing their way out of his throat.

It took a long, broken moment before Tony could raise his hand, before he could stroke DJ's hair away from his forehead. “I love you,” he said, and his voice didn't sound like his. “No matter who you choose to be. No one will ever take you away from us. Okay?”

DJ nodded, his face still hidden against Tony's side, and that was good enough. Tony smoothed DJ's hair, his fingers tangling in the soft waves. Hey. What is the rule? What is the one rule?”

Never letting go, DJ lifted his head, his eyes huge and red as he stared up at Tony. He blinked, hard, and held up a bare leg. “Yeah, that's right,” Tony agreed. “Where are your pants? Those are necessary. There are rules here, and you know it. Pants.” He pointed, and DJ grinned up at him. He let go, his fingers peeling away one by one, with almost visible reluctance. But DJ let go, leaving the fabric of Tony's shirt crumbled and twisted.

He headed back towards the playroom at a run, and Tony slumped back onto his stool. “Hey, Jarvis?” he asked, pushing a hand through his hair. “Can you find me some sort of a super hero parenting support group?”

“Initial information sweep would indicate that no such thing exists,” Jarvis said, sounding apologetic. “I shall continue searching.”

“You're a trooper, Jay, really, a trooper.” Tony paused. Not sure how to verbalize this, he lowered his voice. “Did you know?”

“I require clarification, sir. Did I know what, precisely?”

Tony pushed himself up, letting the stool rock on the concrete floor of the workshop. “When you notified me about the system attack, which we both know you could've handled on your own, let's not kid ourselves, you could've handled that, did you do it so that I'd find what Dummy had been up to? Did you know that he'd been into my email?”

There was a beat of a pause, an eternity of time for Jarvis, and then he simply said, “Yes.”

“You didn't tell me.”

“No.”

“Why not? Precisely?”

Another pause. “He requested that I do not.”

Tony cupped a hand over his mouth, muffling anything that would have slipped past his control. He took a few deep breaths, and then asked, “Has he had any other nightmares?”

“No.” Tony's shoulders slumped with relief, and Jarvis continued, “He has been a bot for the majority of the time over the last few days.”

“Even when Steve was down here watching him?” He'd hoped, irrationally enough, that Steve's presence, without Tony around, had been enough to coax Dummy into his human form. As much as he hated to admit it, DJ was probably more comfortable with Steve than he was with Tony.

“No. Steve has made no mention of it, either, but I believe he has been concerned for the past few days,” Jarvis said. “Perhaps you could let him know that DJ will be requiring dinner tonight?”

“He's down meeting with half of Congress tonight, which you well know, Mr. Keeper of the Schedules,” Tony told him. “But good try. With the whole matchmaking thing.”

“You are happier when you are not quarreling with Captain Rogers,” Jarvis pointed out. “Which does improve our lives as well.”

“Thank you for the guilt trip, I know, I will deal with how badly I've fucked my personal life up, I promise.” He shook his head. “With how badly I've fucked up my whole life, actually.” Halfway across the workshop, he stopped. “Jarvis? Is he... Angry with me?”

Jarvis didn't have to ask which 'he' Tony was referring to. “No. He seeks not to disappoint you. He is unsure as to what he should be doing. Who he should be. He is trying. But there are many things he does not understand, many things I cannot help him with, because I do not understand them, either.”

“Don't know, Jay, you seem to be doing better than the rest of us.”

“While I appreciate the sentiment, sir, that is far from the truth.”

“Thanks, Jarvis. Guess we're all learning together.” Tony leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest. “Hey, what the heck is taking so-”

The words died in his chest. DJ was sitting on the floor, one sock on, the other in his hand. The one that was already on was inside out, the seam visible against the line of his toes, but he was struggling with the other, the expression on his face one of intense concentration. Tony's eyes closed.

“Want me to help?” Tony asked. “Or do you want to do it for yourself?” DJ considered that, then held out the sock. Tony crouched down in front of him, and rolled the sock onto DJ's foot.

When he pulled his hands away, DJ held up his foot, wiggling his toes. The seam was visible. He grinned up at Tony. Tony tried to smile back. “Is that better?” he asked. “Inside out, is that better?”

DJ didn't reply, he just scrambled to his feet, hugged Tony around the waist, and headed back towards the workshop. Tony stared after him. He took a deep breath.

“Hey, botchild.” DJ looked up at him, and Tony smiled at him. “If you don't want to talk, you don't have to,” he said, and DJ's smile faded. “You don't HAVE to,” Tony repeated. “If you don't want to, we'll figure something out. Probably Steve. Steve is good at figuring stuff out, isn't he? Much better than me, God bless Steve. We'll find some way for you to communicate, to tell us what you need.”

He crouched down in front of DJ. “But if I never hear your voice again, I'll miss it. So if you ever feel like talking, will you save me a word?”

There was something he didn't understand about DJ's expression, about the way his mouth worked. His teeth sank into his lower lip, and Tony tapped DJ on the chin. “It's okay,” he said, and it felt good to say it. “It's okay, Deej. We'll make it work. We.” He smiled. “You're not alone in this.” He leaned forward, letting his lips linger against DJ's head. “Even if you do sound like a little mechanical chipmunk.” DJ giggled, and Tony grinned. “What? That's accurate. It's- No, don't give me that face. Accurate. Tiny, robotic chipmunk. All squeaky and high pitched and-” DJ's hand pressed against Tony's mouth, and Tony grinned against the little palm. “No?” he asked, the word muffled. DJ shook his head. Tony stood up. “See? You can make yourself understood.” 

His smile was easier this time. “You don't have to talk. But it would be natural if you did. After all, you're a Stark. And Starks aren't known for being strong, silent types. We're known for being loud mouthed assholes.” He paused. “Okay, maybe you're making a good choice. We'll see.”

He held out a hand. “Want to help me do some maintenance on your poor, neglected brothers? They're always good for you.” DJ's fingers closed around his, and Tony took a second, to cling, to squeeze DJ's fingers tight. “Okay, then.” He held on, and it was stupid, to try to get some sense of stability from a child, but it was easier. It was easier with DJ's hand in his, warm and real. “We can do this. Right?”

DJ held up his free hand and Tony gave him a high five. “Right. You're grounded. Forever. Let's get to work.”

He knew what he had to do.

*

Tony had an office in StarkTower. 

He didn't use it much, he didn't really use it at all, but when they'd been planning the tower, and when they'd been rebuilding it, it seemed like the sort of thing that should be there. It seemed like the sort of thing that he should have. His father had a library, a room full of heavy, dark woods and brocades that seemed to absorb sound and warmth in equal parts. Tony didn't have very many positive associations with that room, but it was something he associated with the business side of Howard Stark, and as with most other parts of his life, he was determined to do it better than his father had ever managed.

Tony's version of the Stark Library was high tech and high shine, but still, there were books filling all of the broad, well built shelves that ringed three of the walls. The last wall was a sheer glass face, massive windows that looked out over the city. The view was fantastic, but tonight, he wasn't really capable of appreciating it. 

Instead, he sat at the large, beautifully designed desk, and stared at the simple black folder that sat in the middle of it, a tumbler of scotch sitting by his elbow. He wasn't sure how long he'd been sitting there when the brisk, polite knock on the door brought his head up. But he found he was grateful for the interruption.

“Come on in,” he said, pushing the folder away with one hand, the gesture full of a childish sort of frustration. He slumped back in his chair, scraping his fingers through his hair. 

Steve leaned in through the open door, one hand braced on the knob, the other holding a coffee cup. “You busy?” he asked. His voice was quiet, but there was no anger in it. Tony's breath hitched in his throat; it had been days since they'd done more than trade polite, but distant, words over the kitchen table or across a SHIELD boardroom.

He'd missed Steve. So much.

Tony waved a hand towards one of the overstuffed chairs that were there in front of the desk.. “Glad for the interruption, actually.”

Some of the stiffness went out of Steve's shoulders, his face relaxing. “Late night?” he asked, a faint smile turning his lips up.

“Pretty much how I live my life.” Tony straightened up. Steve glanced at the glass at Tony's elbow, and Tony followed his gaze. The crystal was beaded with condensation, but the glass was still full, the liquid pale at the top where the melting ice had diluted the alcohol. "I'm not drunk," he said, just because it needed to be said. Because that was his life.

Steve studied him for a long moment, his head tipped to the side, his eyes curious. "No," he said at last. "You're not." He lowered himself into the chair, moving as if he ached, as if he was tired and sick of trying to hide it. 

"Surprise," Tony said to him, a ghost of a smile playing around his lips. His eyes caught on the cup now cradled between Steve's hands, steam curling up from the rim. "That for me?"

"It was going to be." Steve looked down at the cup, his mouth drawing up tight for a second, then relaxing. His shoulders were slumped, and exhaustion was clear in his features. "Now, no. It is not. Because I've just decided, I need this more than you."

"Yeah, but... Coffee," Tony said. He grinned at the smile that curled Steve's mouth. "You know you want to give me that cup."

Steve shook his head. "Tony," he said, his voice worn and rough, "there is no amount of cash or any obscene act that you could promise me right now that could pry this cup out of my hands."

Tony considered him. "I'll rub your feet," he offered.

Steve paused, the cup halfway to his mouth. "You utter bastard," he said, but he was already standing up. Laughing, Tony moved to the couch over by the bookshelves, sinking down into the plush upholstery as Steve took a seat at the other end. He handed Tony the cup and reached down to untie his boots. Tony took a sip of the coffee, too hot and too strong, and it burned in the best possible way. Savoring the heat, he watched as Steve worked his boots off and slumped back onto the couch with a sigh.

Tony patted his knee. "Give 'em here." He swallowed another gulp of coffee, and handed Steve the cup back.

"You don't have to-" Steve started, and Tony couldn't keep his eyes from rolling.

"Take the coffee, give me your feet." 

Steve took the cup. "Bossy," he said, even as he rested his foot on Tony's knee.

"Yeah, I learned it from this guy I'm dating." Tony didn't look in his direction. "Think we're still dating."

"You're an ass," Steve said, and Tony glanced up. He was smiling, just a little, a familiar sort of affectionate warmth pushing through the exhaustion on his face. He took a sip of the coffee. "But I'm used to it."

"I'd object to that, but, hey, truth." Tony went to work, his fingers digging into the arch of Steve's foot. “I'm bad at this,” he said, his head down, avoiding Steve's eyes. “This, what we're doing. This thing.”

“This relationship?” Steve asked, and he sounded amused. Tony's fingers kept going, finding sore spots, where the tension had gathered, and Steve groaned, soft and low. Tony grinned to himself.

“Yes,” he said. “This relationship.” He looked over, bracing himself for rejection, for disdain, but Steve was just smiling at him, just a little, faint and soft. Tony took a deep breath. “I'm bad at relationships.”

“I know,” Steve said. His eyes were closed now, and he shifted on the couch as Tony continued to work on his sore feet. “But you don't get to use that as an excuse for being an ass. You know that, don't you?”

“Yeah.” Tony didn't want to say anything else. Talking always managed to fuck things up for him, he wasn't sure why. He wasn't sure, but it was probably his fault. After all, the words came out of his mouth, and in the end, that was always what ended up ruining things.

"You're good at that," Steve said. Tony looked over; his head was back, exposing the long line of his throat, and not quite hiding the way his cheeks had flushed. Tony ducked his head to hide his smile. Steve always seemed starved for affection on some level, the physical affection that Tony was perfectly comfortable with. Tony didn't even have to think about it sometimes, most of the time he didn't even realize he was doing it, but Steve would lean into the smallest touches like they were all he needed.

"Yeah, well, dated a lot of women who wear heels that fall somewhere between 'dangerous' and 'crippling,'" Tony said. He dug his thumb in just behind the ball of Steve's foot, and Steve choked on a moan. Tony grinned. "I've had practice."

“Yes, you-” Tony found just the right spot, and Steve's whole body twitched, a flush rising up his face. “Yes, you have,” he managed.

Tony made a considering noise under his breath. “Bad day?”

“Long, that's all.” 

“You were right,” he said. He stared down at his hands, watching them flex. “About DJ. And the seams.”

“Yeah?” Steve shifted on the couch, pushing himself up. He set the empty coffee cup aside on the end table, some of the strain bleeding out of his face. “He's been wearing socks more. I think if we-”

“I'm sorry.” The words came out too fast, too hard, but in his defense, he wasn't accustomed to saying them. Forcing his head up, he gave Steve a thin-lipped smile. “I should've listened to you. You were right. And I-” His head jerked around, his eyes catching on the glass of scotch, and he struggled against the urge to go for it. Luckily, it was out of reach. He looked back at Steve. “I got frustrated. I stopped thinking about him, and started thinking of what other would think of him. I shouldn't have- Sorry,” he finished, a lame apology at best.

Steve's blue eyes caught on his, and then slid away. “It wasn't-” He huffed out a sigh. “I didn't react well.” He looked back at Tony. “I shouldn't have exploded on you. I know. That this isn't easy for you. This is hard. For both of us.”

Tony gave him a faint smile. “You're coping better than me,” he said.

"No. I'm not.” His smile was lopsided. Steve was silent for a second, then said, “You haven't come to bed for the last few days.”

Tony's fingers stilled. “Yeah. Sorry. I-” He tried to raise his head, and couldn't manage it. “I didn't know if I was, you know, welcome.” He looked up. “I was in the workshop.” One shoulder rose and fell in something approaching a shrug. 

“I know,” Steve said. He tugged his foot out of Tony's hand. His lips parted on an audible breath. “I went looking for you.”

Tony's empty hands fell into his lap. “You knew where I was, didn't you?” he asked, exhausted. “Just ask Jarvis, Steve. Eye in the sky, all that shit.”

Steve was quiet for a moment, his fingers knotting together in his lap. “No,” he said. He looked up. “I can't.” His lips twitched. “I can't,” he repeated, as if there were no other words in him but that. “Not with you. Not with DJ. Not with the team. I... Can't.”

“Steve?” Tony asked, and he wasn't sure what he was asking, but it was enough, because Steve started talking.

“When I went down, I thought I was going to die," Steve said, his voice soft, almost inaudible, and Tony froze. "The plane, I mean. When it went down, I knew I was going to die. I had prepared for that, the best that I could. I knew there was no way out. That I was going to die. I just... Wanted it to be quick, at that point.” He stopped, and when he spoke again, it was as if he was talking to himself. “I thought about, you know, eating my gun, when the plane started to sink."

Tony kept silent, his fingers moving in quick, erratic bursts, the rest of him still. The words hurt to hear; he couldn't imagine how hard they were to say.

"I thought about it," Steve said, his eyes closed. "Really hard. I just..." His throat worked. "Thought it was a little unfair, you know? I'd done what I was supposed to do. I'd done the right thing. And I just wanted it to be over."

He shifted on the couch, his legs twitching in Tony's grasp. "But I hit, and I lived, and there was no way out, sinking too fast, the water was too cold, and coming in to fast, and I thought, I should just end it. Kill myself. Make it quick." His hand came up, pressing hard against his eyes, his knuckles white. "But I thought, they might find me. I had no idea where I was going down. And even if they weren't looking for me, the Army, I mean, they'd be looking for the plane. Too much tech to just leave at the bottom of the ocean.

"So I thought, they might find me. And how would it look if I'd-" He broke off, the word fracturing in his mouth, breaking like the boy he'd been not long ago. He looked, at once, both very old and very young and Tony hated this. He hated hearing it, hated the helplessness that it stirred in his chest. Steve looked up, meeting his eyes, and they were empty. "If they found me, I wanted to be... How would it look if I had-"

"It would look like you spared yourself the pain of drowning, suffocating, or freezing to death," Tony said, cutting him off. His voice sounded brittle to his own ears. "You really think that people would've judged you for that?"

"Suicide didn't strike me as being particularly heroic," Steve countered, a faint, sad smile on his lips.

Tony's chest ached. “But it is human.”

"I guess." Steve's eyes closed again, the sweep of dark lashes obvious against the pallor of his skin. "But I couldn't bring myself to do it. Whatever the reason." His shoulders rose and fell in a shrug, oddly dismissive. "So I, you know, got the shield, and just lay down. Closed my eyes, held my breath, and waited..." He paused. "Waited for my heart to stop, I guess."

He looked at Tony, a faint, sad smile on his lips. "I guess it never did."

Tony's felt like it had. He ignored the pain, ignored the thoughts that were jumbling his head, one after another, and he had no control over any of them. "Thank God," he said, and that might not have been the right thing to say, but it wasn't the wrong thing, either, because Steve smiled at him, a real smile.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice soft. “Thank God.” He took a breath, audible in the silence. “But I thought I was going to die. I closed my eyes. I knew I was going to die. I prepared for that, I was prepared for that.”

His hand came up, and he scraped his fingers against his mouth, against his skin. “And then I woke up in a perfectly ordinary looking room, and came to know that everyone else had died, instead.” His face twisted with sudden, shattering violence, and it hurt to see it. For an instant, rage or agony swept across Steve's features, and then it was gone, swept away, and Steve was quiet again. “I had lost decades. A whole lifetime. I had been prepared to die, Tony. I wasn't prepared to lose what I did.”

He looked up, his eyes meeting Tony's. “I didn't expect to wake up in another life, an unfamiliar life. I'm glad I did,” he said. “I'm so glad I did, but-” He stopped. Took a breath. “I keep expecting it to happen again.”

Tony blinked at him. “What?”

Steve's lips parted. “Sometimes, I wake up, and you're not there, and for an instant, I wonder if it's happened again. If I went to sleep for decades. If you're gone. If everyone's gone. It's happened once. I lost everyone. Everything.” His smile was sad, full of pain. 

“You know that's-” Tony stopped himself before he could say 'insane,' because yeah, that was a bad choice, he knew full well how badly that could hurt, and he was pretty crazy himself. “Steve. It's not going to happen.”

“Yeah, I know that. I know that,” Steve repeated, taking a deep breath. “But it doesn't help the fear when I-” He shook his head. “I wake up, and you're not there, or I don't know where DJ is, or people aren't where they should be, and it's like I've lost everything. All over again. I know. That it won't happen. That it was a fluke, a one in a million chance, but-”

Tony studied him, not sure what to do. “I don't want to wake you up when I get up,” he said. “If I'm just going down to, you know, work off some stress, or if I can't sleep, and I just go to the workshop, I deliberately try to sneak out of bed. I was just trying to let you sleep, you know that, right?”

“Yes,” Steve said with a faint smile.

Tony paused. “Do you want me to wake-”

“Yes,” Steve said, cutting him off. There was more force to the word then there should have been, something that sounded like desperation or need, and his hands folded into fists for a second before he re-exerted enough control to smooth them out. “Yes. Please. I know it's stupid, I know that-”

“Who gives a fuck?” Tony asked. A faint, inappropriate feeling of amusement washed over him, and his lips kicked up on the edges. “Steve. Seriously. All the shit I put you through? I think that you get a couple of irrational requests, and this isn't even irrational.” He reached for the coffee cup. “It's just what you need.”

“Thank you.” Steve pressed a hand to his eyes, pressing hard. “So what you said, I know what you meant, but it just blindsided me. It-” He stopped, then made a visible effort to try again. “I love him, Tony. I love you, and I love him. So much. And the idea that I could lose him, it just- Hit me wrong.”

“You mean, the idea that I would take him away from you,” Tony said.

Steve's smile was slight, but real. “He is your son, Tony.”

Tony took a breath, and it came out as, “He could be yours, if you want.” It wasn't as hard as it should've been, to say the words. Somehow, despite the ache beneath his breastbone, it felt natural and right. To do the right thing for Dummy, even if it hurt. Maybe because it hurt. He wasn't sure. But it was all right. It was the right thing to do.

Steve stared at him, a frown on his face. “Tony?”

Tony's mouth twitched. “Got the reports back. A while ago, actually.” He smiled at Steve. “They've run the numbers. The odds. He's got a better chance if it's you.”

Steve's brows drew up tight, and he pushed himself up, just a little, the muscles in his shoulders and arms going tight. “What do you mean, he's got a better chance?”

Tony opened his mouth. It took him a second to find the words. “DJ is a child without a paper trail,” he said. “Without any background. What typically happens is that they would-” He stopped. Took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. Steve's hand caught his and squeezed, and Tony felt a bit of the tension go out of him. He squeezed back, then pulled his hand out of Steve's. Pushing himself up, he crossed back to his desk, scooping up the folder. He weighed it in his hand, so thin, so innocent looking. He turned back.

“They would take the child away, declare him a ward of the state, and place him with an approved foster family until someone can legally be declared his guardian, until adoption proceedings can be started.” He handed Steve the folder. Steve glanced at him, then down at the pages. Tony leaned against the bookcases, not wanting to take a seat again. He thought better o his feet. “That means rounds of home inspections, interviews with everyone living in the house, and I can't imagine how well that would go, but I'm pretty sure that the appropriate word would be 'disaster.'

“Obviously, that's not going to work here. None of it is going to work here. We can't take the risk. It's not just me, or him, it's everyone involved.” Tony's hand was shaking as he pushed it through his hair. “Can you imagine if they placed him with a foster family and then the word gets out of whose kid he is?” He shook his head. “The paparazzi alone. Let alone someone with a gun and a grudge.”

He took a breath, and another one, trying to steady himself. “So they ran the numbers. Coulson, he, uh, he worked up a cover story. It's a good one. They'll make up a family for him, a couple of SHIELD agents that were your friends, who died in the line of duty, and made you his guardian. He can do it.” Tony's lips twitched. “He's good. But it helps if it's you. The story, it won't raise an eyebrow if it's you. If it's me, well, things get complicated. My past, fuck, my present, kind of makes me a lousy choice for, well, all intents and purposes, an adoptive parent.”

Tony smiled at Steve. “But you? You're the perfect father.” He huffed out a slight laugh. “He'll be safer with you. Happier.” His head bobbed in a slight nod. “We can do this.”

Steve stared at him, his face unreadable. He closed the folder. “No.”

Tony was surprised by how quickly, how completely, his stomach dropped. “No, what do you mean, no, you-”

“I mean, no, I'm not going to take your son away from you,” Steve said, and for the first time, Tony realized that he was angry. No, angry wasn't the word.

Furious.

“Absolutely not,” Steve said, the words forced out from between gritted teeth. “No. He's your son, Tony. How can you-” He stopped, took a deep breath. “No. Because it would gut you, it would absolutely destroy you if you couldn't acknowledge him. If you had to...” Steve stopped, the fight going out of him. “If you had to deny him.”

“You know what would destroy me?” Tony asked. “If they tried to take him away.” 

“They won't.”

“That's not an opinion shared by some of the best legal minds that I can pay for,” Tony snapped, and he caught himself. Caught himself and reined himself in. “It will hurt,” he admitted. “I won't... Enjoy it. But he'll be safe. He'll be safe, here, with you, no one is going to turn you down, no one is going to think that you're an unfit parent for him.”

“So you're suggesting that we build his life on a foundation of lies?”

“I'm suggesting that we protect him.” Tony shoved himself to his feet, needing to move, needing to do something, even if it was just pace. He wanted a drink so badly he could taste it. “I'm suggesting that for the first time in my fucking life, I'm trying to put what I want behind something that someone else needs.”

He turned back to face Steve, his hands spreading wide. “I am trying to do the right thing by this child, even if that means that you-” His fingers folded into fists, falling to his sides. “Don't you want him?” he asked, and the words hurt in his throat.

He didn't even see Steve stand up, he moved so fast that he was just there, right in front of Tony, his hands closing on Tony's arms. “I want him, more than you will ever know,” he said. “But not at your expense.” 

“Better my expense than his.”

Steve leaned in, resting his forehead against Tony's. “I will be his favorite uncle, I hope. I will be the one he turns to when he's fighting with you. And I will be your partner in this, Tony, but he is your child.” Tony could hear his smile in the warm tone of his voice. “I need you both, you know that, right?”

Tony's eyes slipped closed. “I need him to be safe, Steve.”

“And he will be.” Steve's hands slid down Tony's arms, and back up. He let out a sigh. “How long have you been dealing with this without telling me?”

Tony winced, even as he leaned into Steve's body. Steve's arms wrapped around him, the hug instinctive. “A while,” he admitted, from within the shelter of Steve's arms. It was easier, with his face buried in Steve's shoulder, to admit that he was an idiot.

“You're an idiot,” Steve said, but the way his arms tightened took the sting out of the words. 

“Yeah,” Tony agreed. “I just-” He slid his arms around Steve's waist. “I just can't lose him.”

“And you're not going to,” Steve said. His lips brushed against Tony's temple. “But you are looking at this as an all or nothing situation. You, or me.”

“What else is there?”

“We do what we do best, Tony.” Steve's grin was brilliant. “We face our problems as a team.”


	6. Chapter 6

“This would be so much easier if you weren't crazy.”

Tony didn't look up from his plans. “Uh-huh.” He made a notation with a flick of his finger. “Jarvis, are we ready for Phase 2?”

“Yes, sir, the crews from StarkIndustries were able to finish the main structure last night.”

“Great.” Tony looked at Clint. “Ahead of schedule.”

“Your schedule is nuts, Stark.” With a twist of his wrist, Clint snapped the last of the bindings on the pallet, and started peeling away the plastic wrap that protected the contents. “Absolutely nuts. You know that, right?”

“Hasn't slowed me down much, Barton, so I don't see why I should be concerned.” Tony pointed. “Let's get to work on-” A tiny hand latched onto he side of his shirt, tugging on the fabric, and Tony looked down. “Hi,” he said, and DJ grinned up at him. “Do you need a job?”

“Do you need a power tool?” Clint asked, crouching down to ruffle DJ's hair. “We got power tools. Saws, nail guns, drills, what do you want to play with?”

“Do not give the child deadly weapons,” Tony told him, even as DJ started tugging on his shirt. Tony considered resisting, but DJ looked so hopeful, his grin infectious. “What, do you want me to come with you?” DJ tugged again, and Tony gave in. “Build!” he called over his shoulder at Clint. “Make- Go be useful!”

“I'm on strike!” Clint yelled back, laughter clear in his voice.

Tony would've said something to that, but he was too busy trying to follow DJ through the tangle of the developing playroom. He looked around with a critical eye, running calculations without conscious thought. They were ahead of schedule; it was remarkable what throwing money and manpower at a problem could accomplish.

DJ came to a stop in the middle of a clear area, and Tony staggered to a stop next to him. "What?" he asked. "What're we-" DJ held his arms straight up, and not quite sure why, Tony did the same, holding his hands straight up in the air. DJ considered him, his mouth pursed. Then he turned and scrambled away.

"I'm still here," Tony called after him. He stood there, hands held up above his head. "Why am I doing this? Is there a reason? Are you gaslighting me?"

A moment later, DJ was back, towing Steve by the hem of his shirt. He stopped next to Tony, faced Steve and held his hands up. Steve looked at him, looked at Tony. Tony shrugged. Laughing, Steve held his hands up, and DJ sped off again.

"What are we doing?" Steve asked.

"Damned if I know." Tony grinned as Steve laughed again.

"You two look like idiots," Rhodey said. "I'm just saying. You look like you're both surrendering to each other."

"Well, now that you mention it," Tony said, his teeth flashing in a predatory smile.

"Not mentioning it. Not mentioning anything, you need to stop oversharing," Rhodey told him, heaving a support strut onto his shoulder. He pushed himself to his feet, the muscles in his back and shoulders bunching with the strain.

"Thank you." Thor lifted it from his shoulder with one hand, swinging it easily onto his own. Rhodey ducked as the hefty piece of metal cut through the air, but it was well above his head. "Exactly what was needed."

Rhodey watched him go, a faint expression of frustration crossing his face, and Tony laughed. "Get the suit."

Rhodey pointed a finger in his direction. "Unlike you, Mr. I-gotta-overcompensate-for-everything, I do not need the damn suit."

"You're getting into a pissing match with an Asgardian, you most certainly do need the suit Mr. Hypercompetitive-can't-stand-coming-in-second," Tony shot back.

"Excuse me? Who's competitive?" Rhodey gave him a look. "Not sure I should be accepting that from you. You, who-"

"I know better than to get into a fight with Thor without the suit," Tony said.

"You should know better than to get into a fight with him WITH the suit," Steve pointed out.

"Touche, but we all know I make poor choices, so let's not-"

"I think that saying 'you make poor choices is actually putting it a little too mildly," Rhodey said.

"And you continue to stick around, so why should we trust your judgment, really, you crash jets for a living."

"I protect your useless ass for a living, that's what I do. And another thing-"

Thor walked past again, humming to himself under his breath, a massive piece of metal balanced easily across his shoulders. Everyone watched him go.

"Don't get into pissing contests with an Asgardian," Tony said.

Bruce had wondered up at some point in the conversation and now stood to the side, a tablet in his hand and a faint smile on his lips. "You do know that he fought the other guy to a standstill, don't you?" he asked Rhodey.

"I'm getting the suit," Rhodey said, heading for the door.

"Yeah, that's probably for the best," Tony called after him. "Welding. I need- Welding, Rhodey!"

"What are you two doing?" Bruce asked, and Tony realized that he was still standing there, his hands in the air.

"Apparently, surrendering," Steve said with a smile.

"Surrendering is a good way to put it. Surrendering to the fact that my life is out of control, and I can almost pinpoint the moment it became out of control, right down to the second, and I think it was when you moved in," Tony told Bruce. "You were the tipping point."

Bruce's eyebrows arched. "When I moved in?" he asked, amusement rolling over his mobile features. "Is, is that what we're calling it? The harassment you put me through when I tried to not move in?"

"You were confused, disoriented, it had been a long couple of days, that's why you're having trouble remembering," Tony said, utterly without shame, and Steve was grinning and trying to look like he wasn't grinning, and that was the best look on him, it really was.

"You had a head injury and used that as an excuse for badgering me," Bruce said.

"You know, if you're going to bring up the past, I don't think we can talk about this any more." 

Bruce opened his mouth to say something, but he broke off as DJ returned, both of his brothers rolling along in his wake. He nudged You into place, and held his hands up. After a moment of contemplation, the bot mimicked the movement. DJ threw his arms around the bot, hugging him around his main support. Bruce brought a hand up, rubbing his chin to cover his smile. “I'm going to bring everything down,” he said. “Before I end up as part of this.”

“Thanks, Doc,” Tony said. “Coulson and Pepper should be here soon.”

“I'll be ready.”

“Deej?” Steve said, bringing Tony's attention back to his son. “What're we doing, buddy?” DJ scampered over to him, and threw his arms around Steve's waist. Laughing, Steve lowered his hands to scoop the boy up. DJ snuggled against his shoulder for just a second, and then he was wiggling to be let down. Steve put him back on his feet, and DJ was off and running almost before he touched the floor.

“We have work to do here, bratbot,” Tony called after him, and DJ doubled back to lean against Tony's side. Tony ruffled his hair. “Are we going to get your playroom done or not?” he asked DJ.

DJ considered him with big, dark eyes, then he grinned. He nodded, and held up a hand. Tony considered it. “I don't know if you deserve a high five at this point,” he said, and it was a struggle to keep a straight face as DJ pouted up at him. “Pretty sure you don't.” 

Steve leaned over Tony's shoulder and gave DJ the high five he was waiting for. “Good job,” Steve said, and Tony gave him a look. “Positive reinforcement,” Steve told him. “We're going with positive reinforcement here.”

“You're undermining my authority,” Tony told him.

“Just adding to it,” Steve said. He tipped his chin towards DJ, who was still standing there, his hand at the ready, staring at Tony, waiting. Waiting for the gesture of approval. 

Tony gave him a high five. “Good boy. Can we get back to work now?” he asked.

Satisfied, DJ bounced off again. Tony watched him go. “Brat,” he called after DJ, and Steve laughed. Wrapping his arms around Tony's waist from behind, Steve brushed a kiss against the side of Tony's neck. “You, too, you are a horrible brat,” Tony told him, even as he relaxed back into Steve's arms. “And you smell like paint.”

“You smell like metal shavings and sawdust,” Steve said, still nuzzling Tony's neck. “I like it.”

Tony couldn't manage to hold back a smile. “Yeah, well, you're-” He stopped as DJ returned, his arms filled with sheets, and nudged between them. Steve stepped back, and DJ dumped the pile of sheets in the middle of the floor. As they watched, he started stretching the fabric out. "Are we building a tent?" Tony asked him. "Is that what this is?"

"That's going to be a very big tent," Steve said, even as he grabbed hold of the edge of a piece of sheeting, shaking it out. "Do you want us to get Thor and Clint? They're your usual tent building buddies, right?" DJ nodded. "Do you want them to help you?" DJ considered that, then nodded again. "Okay, let them finish what they're doing and then I'm sure they'll be happy to come help you."

"Probably better for Barton to be down here playing with cloth than doing anything important,” Tony said, even as Butterfingers rolled up, draped with what looked to be a good portion of his linen closet. “How- You know what, never mind. I do not want to know why we're putting up a circus tent in he middle of the active construction zone, let alone how you got all of this. This is something I'm better off-”

“Sir?” Jarvis interrupted him. “Ms. Potts and Agent Coulson have arrived.”

Tony took a deep breath. “Meeting time?” he asked Steve.

“Meeting time,” Steve agreed, a faint smile on his face. He set the sheet down. “Deej? We're going to go take care of some Avengers business, and then we're going to take a break for dinner. Butterfingers and You can help you lay out your tent for the next thirty minutes, and then we need you to help with dinner. Okay?”

DJ looked at Tony, his expression pleading. “Half an hour to play,” Tony told him. “Jarvis will give you a ten minute warning.” He leaned over. “After dinner, we'll help you build your tent.” DJ pointed at him. “Yes. I'll help you.” DJ grinned, and Tony smiled back. “Jarvis, will you keep an eye on the brat pack?”

“Of course, sir.”

Satisfied, DJ went back to his work, pacing out a space in the middle of the floor. Butterfingers trailed after him, sheets dragging on the ground like a wedding train. Tony told himself that it wasn't funny. Judging by the look on Steve's face, he found it to be very funny.

“Let's bring the team in,” Steve said, laughter obvious in his voice. “Jarvis, if you would, please?”

“Of course.”

“And brew me a pot of coffee, Jay.” Tony could feel the beginnings of a stress headache pounding behind his temples. He rubbed his forehead. “I am really bad at this whole thing,” he said, through set teeth.

“You really aren't,” Steve told him. “And you're getting better.” He gave Tony a smile. “I'm proud of you.”

Tony stopped, almost mid-step. “Are you... Are you using positive reinforcement on me?”

“Maybe,” Steve admitted. “I've found it to be pretty effective with all of the Stark boys.”

“No, no, it's not,” Tony said. “It's not effective. Not at all.”

Steve nodded. “Feels effective,” he said. “You know what? I'm going to keep doing it.”

Tony stared at him, his mouth working silently. “Don't,” he managed at last. “Don't do that, that's- That is stupid.”

Steve considered him, his blue eyes sharp. He leaned in. “I'm proud of you,” he said, his voice pitched low. There was nothing false to his voice, no hint of mockery. He smiled. “I really am, Tony.”

“This is manipulative,” Tony grumbled, but if he was being honest with himself, he knew it wasn't. Because Steve was still smiling at him, and Tony needed that.

“A little,” Steve agreed. “I learned from the best.”

“I am not manipulative.”

“I am shocked you could say that with a straight face, Stark.” 

“I'm shocked that you're still shocked,” Tony said, just to make Steve chuckle. He boosted himself up to sit on the workbench, conveniently within arm's reach of the coffee pot. “Hail, hail, the gang's all here,” he said, reaching for a cup. “What's the status, people? Are we ready for this?”

“The playroom will be ready in another few days,” Clint said. He was covered in sawdust and paint splatters and seemed completely cheerful about this. “A week. Max.”

“It won't be done in a week,” Rhodey said.

“It would if you'd get the suit,” Tony told him. 

“Or you could just do what you always do and throw money at the problem,” Rhodey said, crossing his arms over his chest.

“This sounds like a great idea. Done. A week.” Tony looked to Pepper. “Pepper?”

She took a deep breath, her arms wrapped tightly around a tablet computer, hugging it to her chest. “We're ready,” she said. 

“Legal?” he asked.

“Ready,” she said.

“PR?”

“Always ready, Tony, really, the PR department has dealt with so much worse than this,” Pepper said, wry.

“True. Management?”

“Yes, Tony. We're ready.”

“This is going to hit the company,” he said.

“And we are ready,” she said. Her chin came up, just an inch or so, but she was regal when she wanted to be. “I know my job, Mr. Stark, and that is to keep this company going, no matter what you do.”

Tony smiled at her. “I know. Thank you, Ms. Potts. Give yourself a bonus of some sort.” 

She gave a faint snort. “Christmas bonus time is going to be very expensive for you this year,” she told him. But she was smiling, wide and bright. “We're ready.”

Tony nodded. “Thanks, Pep.” She nodded, and her eyes were bright and wet.

"How're we doing, Doc?" Steve asked.

"I think we've got all the preliminary data." Bruce looked up. "There's no way they'll accept it from me. You have to understand, they'll rerun the tests. But this will give them a baseline to function from. An idea of what they're dealing with."

"How'd he do?" Tony asked, not really wanting to know but unable to stop himself for asking.

Bruce gave him a smile. “Not so good on the verbal portions, and most of the tests seemed to bore him, but other than that? He is a brilliant little boy. A well-adjusted, intelligent, and cheerful little boy.”

Tony felt his shoulders slump. The sensation of relief was almost overwhelming. “Okay,” he said, and then because he had nothing else to say, he repeated it. “Okay.”

Steve leaned against his side, the press of his shoulder to Tony's shoulder was remarkably comforting. “Speaking of paperwork, Coulson?”

"We have the paperwork in order," Coulson said. He paused. "All of it."

"We're not using most of it," Tony said.

"But you have it-" Coulson stopped, meeting Tony's eyes. "You. You have it. You can use it, or choose not to use it. But it's your choice at this point." He went back to his files. "We have a candidate for your position lined up."

His fingers danced over the tablet, and the information popped up in front of all of them. "This is Agent Christine Collins. Decorated agent with twenty five years of field work under her belt. Expert in explosives, demolitions, and top ranked marksman. Five children, one grandchild. She is a second generation SHIELD agent; her father was one of the first agents, and two of her daughters are continuing the tradition. She took a desk job three years ago due to an injury, and is approaching retirement. 

"She is also an excellent baker, capable of rebuilding a carborator, and does not believe that corporal punishment is acceptable under any circumstances." Coulson paused. "Also, I did add in the wardrobe inquiry to the questionare."

"And her response?" Steve asked, scrolling through her resume.

"That if a boy is more comfortable wearing a pink taffeta skirt, then he should be allowed to wear it." Coulson's lips twitched. "Also that it is a stupid question, and not really any of her business what someone else's child wears, unless the child asks her for her opinion. At which point, she'll be sure to tell him he looks wonderful."

"Sold," Tony said. “Wonderful. Fantastic. Fucking done.”

"You think she'll do it?" Steve asked.

"Yes. I doubt she'll want to be a full time nanny, but as an emergency contact, in case of actual AV business, or something else that keeps everyone busy for a while, she'll be an excellent short term solution, provided DJ likes her."

"Are you really trolling the SHIELD ranks looking for a babysitter?" Rhodey asked. 

Tony gave him a look. He didn't seem to notice. "What do you suggest? We hit up Craig's List?"

"I'm suggesting that she's probably overqualified."

"Probably," Steve agreed. "But there are times when the whole team will be on the move. And while he's perfectly able to stay a bot and not need immediate human supervision, we didn't want him trapped that way. If he wants to be a child, he'll need someone watching out for him."

"You want to volunteer, big bird?" Tony asked Rhodey.

"I get enough babysitting time watching over you," Rhodey shot back. "I'll just be the cool uncle who brings him the best presents."

"And, no insult intended," Steve said, "but we were really hoping for a woman."

"Strangely sexist, coming from you."

Steve winced. "Yes, it is," he agreed. "But I'd really like for DJ to have more of a female influence in his life. With all possible due respect to Pepper and Natasha, he really does need to interact with more women."

"So he doesn't grow up thinking all women are pale skinned with red hair?" Natasha asked.

"That is a problem," Steve said, his lips quirking.

"No problem, not a problem at all, let him think that every single woman he encounters is terrifyingly intelligent and can break his kneecaps with a look. Safer that way," Tony said, still flipping through the data.

"Probably safer for the female population at large as well," Pepper said with a saccarine smile. "We didn't ask for another one of you."

"I don't know if he's going to be more or less dangerous than me,” Tony mused.

“More,” Natasha said.

“Fine. What've you got?” Tony asked her.

She pushed herself up. “The man in question will work with us.”

“You're sure?” Steve asked.

"He's a true believer," Natasha said. "This isn't a political appointee. This isn't a power situation. He believes, very strongly, in the responsibility of his position. He has fought, repeatedly, and hard, for what he considers the right thing. He pushes for laws, for public interaction. He's done several sweeps of his department, clearing dead wood and removing problematic employees."

She looked up. "For a government bureau? That's impressive. But his people have a clear mandate, and that is to do the best thing for the child in question, and serve the community. However, if it comes down to it? The well being of the child is foremost. Always."

"You think he'll see things our way?" Tony asked. His foot was rattling against the ground a rapid and nervous tattoo that he couldn't seem to stop.

"I think he's our best option," she said. "And far better than we could've hoped for. He's been in the line of fire for things before, but he's no political mover and shaker, and he's not using this position as a stepping stone for a higher office or a political appointment."

She leaned back against the bench. "He has to be approached in the correct way. But if he is? He'll understand the situation."

"You're sure?" Steve asked.

Her lips quirked. "As sure as I can be. I would not," she said, her lips stretching into a smile, "let Tony be our point person on this-"

"Agreed," Tony said.

"But provided we handle the situation properly, and keep all the appropriate feathers smoothed, then yes. He will see things our way."

Tony “Thor?”

Thor shifted his weight. “Should it come to it, he will find sanctuary in Asgard. The All-Mother has extended to him the offer of protection, until some way can be found to render him safe here.” 

“Let's not let it come to that,” Tony said, because, yes, that was not something he could cope with. 

“I think it shall not,” Thor said, giving him an easy smile. “But Heimdall awaits the call.”

“And your father?” Coulson asked, the question carefully phrased. Odin was still an unknown variable, as far as SHIELD was concerned. 

Thor paused. “The All-Mother made it clear,” he said, his lips twitching at the edges, “that in this, her judgment was not to be questioned. I posed the question to her, and her response was clear, that she extended her protection to the boy. And if it were to come to it that he required her protection, at that point, she would notify my father.”

“In other words, take care of what needs doing, and worry about the politics later?” Steve asked.

Thor's grin was wide and white. “Aye, Captain. It is as if you know her.”

“I had one like her,” Steve said. “I think they would've gotten along well.”

“Perhaps so.” Thor glanced at Tony. “He will be safe. I swear to it. You have my oath, and my mother's.”

Of the two, Tony trusted Thor's more. But he didn't say so.

Steve looked at Tony. He didn't say a word. He just waited, his gaze level and patient. Tony took a deep breath. And another. He released it. “Pull the trigger, Cap.” Steve nodded, and Tony told himself that he was doing the right thing.

"Phil?" When Coulson looked in his direction, Steve gave him a faint smile. "You're up."

Phil's lips curved in a faint smile. Up on the scaffolding, Clint started to laugh. "All right then," he said. He scrambled to his feet. "Let's go break and enter into some government facilities."

"Just like old times," Natasha said.

*

“Late night, Tom?”

Tom glanced up from the extremely important decision he was struggling to make. “Looks like it's going to be,” he admitted, giving Vicki a lopsided smile. “What do you think, peanut butter crackers or cheez crackers?” he asked her.

Vicki leaned her free hand up against the vending machine, studying the contents, her bright red lips pursed tight. “You realize,” she said, shifting a stack of file folders on her hip, “that you can call restaurants. All sorts of restaurants. And they will bring food to you.” Her lips kicked up on one side. “Real food. Food that will not result in you dying before your sixtieth birthday.”

He gave a snort. “If I make it to my sixtieth birthday, I will be shocked,” he said, his voice wry. He punched the buttons and leaned over to get his artificially bright orange dinner. 

“Seriously, boss, that is nasty,” Vicki told him. “Send an intern for a pizza or something.”

He smiled. “If I order pizza, or any food at all,” he told her, “I've gotta admit that I'm going to be here for the rest of the night. If I just limit myself to a snack, I can pretend that I'll be going home soon.”

She considered that. “Tom?”

“Yeah?” He ripped open the package and shook out a cracker sandwich. 

“You're not going home soon.” She held out the stack of folders, and he took them with a sigh.

“I was going to offer you a cracker,” he said. “Now? I'm not.”

“My heart is breaking,” Vicki said. She fed a dollar into the machine, and punched the buttons. “I'm going to be here for a while, too. Too many cases. Too few case workers.”

“Tell me about it.” Tom balanced his crackers on top of the file folders and ran his thumb up the stack, doing a quck mental count. It ended up being 'too many,' and he heaved a melancholy sort of sigh. “Fine. Back to work, I suppose.”

“You suppose correctly.” Vicki straightened up and dropped a yellow packet of Peanut M&Ms onto the top of his file folders. “Dessert.”

“You're a peach, Vicki, you are a peach.”

“Uh-huh.” She popped the top on her soda and headed back up the empty hall towards her office. “Tell me if you change your mind about getting something to eat, I'll probably still be here, too.”

“Go home!” Tom called after her, and she waved a hand in his direction, but never even looked back. “I get no respect around this department,” Tom grumbled to himself. He balanced the folders on one hand so he could jam another cracker sandwich into his mouth. “None,” he mumbled around it.

Moving through the silent offices, he paused in front of his door, shifting the folders to one hip so he could unlock it. Fumbling with his keys, he jammed the unopened packet of chocolate between his teeth to avoid dropping it. Moments later, he wrestled his door open, and stepped inside. Kicking the door shut behind him, he crossed the dimly lit space to his battered, over crowded desk.

“Hello, Mr. Warren.”

The fact that he was not alone in his office had barely sunk in when the slim man in the black suit rose from one of Tom's guest chairs, turning to bring them face to face. His was pleasant, and unexceptional, with a steady gaze and a faint smile on a wide mouth. He took Tom's stunned silence in stride, continuing smoothly, “I'm Agent Phil Coulson of SHIELD. I'm here to speak to you about a matter of national security.”

Tom gathered his wits with a force of will, and he dropped the files onto a nearby shelf, wanting his hands free for whatever was coming. “SHIELD. SHIELD?” He stared at the man, not sure what this was all about, but not liking it already. No good came of a visit from SHIELD. He didn't know much about the organization, but he knew that much. “We are well past office hours, Agent. How did you get in here?” The door had been locked. He'd been sure it had been locked.

“We have our ways,” Coulson said, lowering himself back into the visitor's chair. He had a slim leather case in his hands, which he rested on his lap. "Just so you understand the situation, Mr. Warren, no one saw me enter. No one will see me leave. If this meeting does not go the way that I sincerely hope that it will go, then there will be nothing to prove I was ever here."

Tom stared at him, caught between a wild, almost hysterical, impulse to laugh, and something approaching pure terror. He had heard enough about SHIELD to think that the latter impulse was the correct one. "That's not ominous or anything. Do you not leave fingerprints? Or cast a shadow?"

The agent's lips twitched in a slight smile. "Or show a reflection in a mirror," he agreed. "It is perhaps easier to just consider me a very dangerous sort of hallucination." He set the slim leather folio on the edge of Tom's desk, and opened it with a flick of his fingers. Two files were placed on the desk, first one, and then the other.

Coulson leaned back in his chair. "As I said, what I am about to share with you is a matter of national security, Mr. Warren."

Tom gave up and walked over to his desk, and sank into his chair, grateful to put the solid wood between the two of them. "A matter of national security," he said, disbelieving. "Really. That's the best you can do? That's insane. We're the Office of Child and Family Services, Agent Coulson. We handle abuse and neglect cases. We handle child welfare. We have nothing to do with national security."

"Now you do."

Tom stared at him. "How?"

"Because the parent of this particular child, if he feels that the boy is threatened, will simply move out of the country. And as he is a big part of our current national defense, you can see why we are concerned."

Tom stared at him. The man stared back, his face smooth, his polite little smile so steady it was as if it was painted on. Like he was the damn governmental Mona Lisa. Tom inhaled, ready to tell him to get out, to get the hell out of his office, but something in his clear, calm gaze, those unblinking eyes, stymied him. He let out his breath in a silent sigh.

"If I open this folder," he said, choosing his words carefully, "am I going to be placed in an impossible position?"

"Yes," the man said, without missing a beat. "Not, I want to make this clear, not because the child in question is in danger, or in any way abused or neglected. But his situation is-" The man's mouth pursed, his brows flickering in, the faintest crease to his forehead. "Unique. The bureaucracy is ill-equipped to deal with him. Which is why I am here."

"Every child's situation is unique, Agent."

"This one, more so." The man reached over the desk, and pushed the file in front of Tom with one finger. "Just to be clear. There is no moral issue here. There is an issue of procedure, and rules, and how, in this case? Those rules cannot be enforced."

Tom's eyes narrowed, and he leaned forward, folding his hands together on top of the folder. "No one is above the rules. They are in place for a reason."

The man smiled, just a faint flicker of his lips. "They do not apply here.” He reached out, and Tom retreated, the movement instinctive. Agent Coulson flipped open the folder. “Meet DJ.”

Tom looked down at the photo, at the handsome, if rather ordinary looking child. He had huge dark eyes and a mass of dark hair and a cheerful smile. He was folded up, his knees tucked up against his chest, and a furby clasped in his hands. He was staring at the camera with a forthright gaze, his eyes crinkling at the corners. 

“I don't-” Tom started.

“DJ Stark,” Agent Coulson said, and Tom's stomach dropped. 

“Please tell me it's not-”

“I suppose,” Coulson continued, his tone musing, “that it should be DJ Stark-Rogers.”

“Well, fuck,” Tom said.

“That is about the gist of it.” He stood up. “The files are there. Please review them. I'll be back to speak to you within 24 hours.” He smiled, and it was not a comforting expression. “I hope we can rely upon your discretion in this matter.”

“Where did he come from?” Tom flipped through the pages. “How did he-” His head jerked up.

The office was empty.

Tom swore. He stopped. Took a breath. Then swore again. He looked back down at the files. And up at the empty room. He leaned back in his chair. “Well, fuck,” he said, resigned now. He stared down at the file. And grabbed his phone. 

Vicki picked up on the second ring. “What can I do for you, boss?” 

“So, about ordering dinner in,” Tom said. “I'm going to take you up on that.” He stared at the file. “I think I'm going to be here for while.” He pushed himself back to his desk, pulling the pages apart. “I think I'm going to be here for a very, very long while.”

*

“Steve?”

The brush of fingers, so light and so careful against his skin, brought him awake with a jolt. He was halfway up, halfway out of the bed when Tony's voice reached him.

“Hey, hey, it's okay, it's all right, I'm sorry, Cap.” Tony caught his arms, strong hands wrapping around Steve's biceps and holding him back. “It's okay,” he repeated, his smile clearly visible even in the dim light. “I just, I'm having trouble sleeping. I'm going to head down to the workshop. Okay?”

It took a second or two for Steve to remember how to breathe, and when he managed to suck in a breath, it hurt. He nodded, a jerky, uneven twitch of his head. “You all right?” he asked. His voice sounded raw, even to his own ears.

Tony's lips quirked up on one side. “I'm fine,” he said, and his hands were rubbing Steve's arms, up and down. “How 'bout you? You were getting a little tense there.”

Steve's head fell forward. “Yeah. Thanks. For waking me.”

There was a pause, and he didn't look in Tony's direction. He struggled to pull himself together, and that was harder than it should've been. The remnants of the dream were still there, like frost on his skin, slowly melting away but leaving something cold and painful in their wake.

“Do you want to talk-”

“Any chance you're up for some company?” Steve asked, cutting him off with ruthless efficiency. 

Tony's hands paused, stilling against Steve's skin, and Steve gritted his teeth against the need to take the words back, to retreat. But before he could, Tony's hand slid up his back, settling against the nape of his neck. “Sure,” he said, and Steve's shoulders slumped. Relief was heady, as much as any drug. 

“Thanks,” Steve said, pulling away from Tony's hands, and he regretted the loss of the contact almost immediately. But he rolled off the bed, pulling free of the sheets that clung to his skin.

Tony shifted on the edge of the bed, making no effort to get up or get dressed. He just sat there and watched as Steve found a pair of pants and a long sleeved shirt. Steve pulled the shirt over his head and smoothed it down over his stomach. “Are you coming?” he asked, managing a faint smile.

“Well, now that the show is over,” Tony said, “I suppose I might as well.”

A few minutes later, dressed and halfway awake, Tony leaned against Steve's side in the elevator. He yawned, wide enough that his jaw cracked, and Steve couldn't hold back a grin. “You're not sleeping?” he asked.

Tony's shoulders rose and fell in a silent shrug, and Steve thought that was all he was going to get. “Little stressed. About tomorrow.” His eyes cut in Steve's direction. “You weren't exactly sleeping well yourself.”

Steve rubbed a hand over his face, his fingers tense against his skin. “Yeah,” he agreed. “I just-” He broke off, frustrated. “Yeah.”

The elevator came to a stop, and neither of them moved. “I'm gonna go and-” Tony waved a hand. “Check on some stuff.”

“Yeah,” Steve agreed.

Tony scratched at his head, disordering his already tangled hair. “Do me a favor. Go check on DJ.”

“I don't need to-”

“Yeah, well, I need you to.” Tony headed for the workshop. “So do me a favor and go and check on the kid.” He pushed through the door and was gone, without a backwards glance.

Steve smiled. “You're not fooling anyone, you fake,” he said, because it needed to be said.

“Might I say.” Jarvis said, “DJ is not currently in his bedroom.”

Steve stopped. “Of course he isn't. Playroom?”

“I am afraid so.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “Yeah. Okay. Jarvis, were you planning on telling us about this?”

“He is a bit stressed as well,” Jarvis said. “Spending a short time in his tent, I thought might be to his benefit.”

“Can't really argue with that.” Steve pushed open the door to the playroom. “Is it finished, then? At last?”

“See for yourself, sir.”

The tent was an impressive piece of work. Even from this distance, he couldn't help but smile at the large structure, at the sweep of sheets and rope. In the darkness of the playroom, a faint, shifting light from the inside of the tent cast shadows against the fabric panels. Something was moving inside, and Steve frowned.

“DJ?” he called, even though the shape was too big to be DJ. “Dummy? If you're going to be a bot tonight, you need to go back to your charging station. You know the rules.” He crossed the room, smiling as the lights flickered and went out. “Uh-huh,” he said. “I saw you. You are supposed to be in bed. Or in you charging station. And you know it.”

DJ's head poked out of the tent flap. “Hi,” Steve said to him, not quite able to hold back a grin. Judging by the way that DJ was still struggling into his pants, he'd been in his bot form all right. “What are you doing out of bed, trouble?”

As if in response, DJ pulled back the flap to the tent, waving a hand at Steve. Steve considered him. “You should be in bed,” he said, and DJ's lower lip poked out in a pout. He reached out and caught the hem of Steve's shirt, tugging. “I'll come see your tent, but then you have to go to bed. It's late.” DJ tugged again, and shaking his head, Steve ducked into the tent.

And was immediately able to stand up. “Ah,” he said, smiling. “So this is why you had us stand with our hands up.” It was big, big enough for several adults, let alone one little boy. “And also why you had Butterfingers and You come over. Did you want a space where all of us could join you?”

DJ plopped down on the floor, which was covered with blankets and pillows in a dozen different shades. He patted the pillows next to him, his expression hopeful. “What time is it?” Steve asked him. DJ considered that. He patted the pillows again. “You don't care, do you?” Steve asked.

DJ shook his head. He gave Steve a pleading look. Steve smiled down at him. “Okay, buddy,” he said, holding out a hand. “Time for bed.”

Ducking out of reach, DJ dug through the pillows, coming up with Furbro. He settled back down and held the toy out to Steve, who struggled against a smile. “Thank you, but I don't need Furbro,” he said. DJ's face fell. Steve studied him for a second, then crouched down. “I could just pick you up and carry you off to bed right now,” he said, his fingers pushing the hair away from DJ's face. DJ leaned into his touch. “Or I can have a seat for five minutes, and then you can go to bed on your own two feet. What do you think?”

Big brown eyes blinked up at him. And DJ patted the pillows next to him. Giving in with a smile, Steve lowered himself down. “You did a very good job with your tent,” he said, and DJ leaned against his side. “Good job,” Steve repeated.

DJ grinned up at him, and then handed Furbro over. Amused, Steve took it from him. DJ, his hands free, rolled to his knees and reached up, his hands dancing through the air. Steve leaned back and watched him as Jarvis provided DJ with a holographic interface. 

“What're you-” he started, and then the light flared.

Stunned, Steve stopped, his head falling back as a universe unfolded around him, filling in the domed space within the tent, the light rising and swirling around him. He felt his lips part on a silent sigh as the stars came into alignment around him, galaxies falling into place like puzzle pieces. 

“Did you make this?” he asked, one hand reaching up. His fingers brushed against the hologram, and it came apart under the pressure. DJ caught his sleeve and gave it a tug, and, laughing, Steve dropped his arm. “Yes, I'm sorry, it's rude to touch someone else's art.”

Steve shifted back, bracing his elbows on the pillows behind him, and DJ scrambled up to sit on his stomach. “You did an amazing job,” Steve said, grinning at DJ, who grinned back. He sat up, stretching his hands in the air. He looked, for all the world, like a tiny wizard shaping the galaxy to suit his purpose, and Steve laughed. “What are you doing? You're too small to move star systems, buddy. And way too small to-” His hands caught DJ's waist and Steve lifted him up, up above his head. DJ let out a shriek of laughter, his arms going out to his sides. “Cause this kind of trouble,” Steve finished. He lowered DJ down, just far enough to kiss the boy on the forehead, and then boosted him back up again.

When he lowered DJ back to the pillows, DJ scooted forward, resting his folded arms on Steve's stomach, and his chin on his arms. “No space adventuring until you're a little bit bigger,” Steve told him, and DJ made a face. “No, sorry. Not negotiable.” He rubbed a hand over DJ's head, and DJ's eyes squeezed shut. “Let us protect you, until you're not quite so small. That's our job. Okay?”

DJ blinked at him, all big dark eyes and silence, then rolled over to put his head on Steve's stomach.

Chuckling, Steve lay back, staring up at the stars as they moved, on some colossal axis that he couldn't see, couldn't understand, but he could see the stars move around him, and it was beautiful. “Jarvis, did DJ design this?” he asked as DJ curled up next to him.

“Yes,” Jarvis said, and Steve didn't think he was imagining the note of pride in the AI's voice. “He has been working on it for some time. I believe he created the space you currently inhabit to provide a stage for his design.”

Steve smiled. “Did you?” he asked, but there was no reply. He lifted his head, just far enough to see that DJ was curled against his side now, his head still pillowed against Steve's stomach. His eyes were closed, his face lax. “And you should've been in bed,” Steve said, his fingers ghosting over DJ's head. He'd gone down fast, too fast, even considering the hour. Steve reached for one of the blankets, dragging it up and over DJ. “Jarvis, how's he been doing?” he asked, smoothing the blanket around DJ's shoulders. 

“He seems driven to complete certain tasks,” Jarvis said. “I do my best to discourage it. But he is occasionally quite stubborn.”

“I know.” Steve stared at the stars. “Can you see this?”

“I am aware of the program that he designed, but the structure does block my view.” Jarvis paused. “How is his finished product?”

Steve's lips curled up. “Amazing.”

“I am pleased to hear it. His efforts are not in vain, then.”

“I don't think they could be.” Steve stared up, letting the images wash over him.

“Hey.”

Steve tipped his head towards the entrance. “Hey,” he said, his voice quiet. He smoothed a hand over DJ's hair, and the boy shifted in his sleep, his cheek pressed against Steve's stomach. “Work going well?”

Tony was looking around, his hands in his pockets. “Huh? Oh, yeah. Just busy work. Trying to do something, you know.” One shoulder rose and fell in a shrug. “Better to do something than just lie there, trying to sleep. Trying and failing.”

Steve reached out with his free hand and patted the space next to him. “Sit with us?”

Tony glanced at him. “Did you do this?” he asked, flicking a hand at the visuals.

“No. DJ did.”

“Yeah?” Tony sat down, picking up Furbro and staring down at it. He turned it over and over between his palms, his eyes hooded. “He did this, too,” he said, holding it out. “He's, I don't know, he's improving it. Making it better.”

“You would've done the same thing at his age,” Steve pointed out. 

“Yeah,” Tony agreed. He looked up at the holograms, and Steve expected him to put the toy down. Instead, he set it in his lap, and Steve wasn't certain he knew what he was doing as his hand settled against its fur. Steve caught himself smiling. Tony's eyes flicked in his direction. “He's better than I was.”

“He's amazing,” Steve said. “As amazing as you.”

“He's the first Stark who's going to actually know what it's like to experience what it's like to have unconditional love and support.” Tony's lips twitched in a smile that seemed melancholy and strained. “He might have my genetics, but he's gonna have your heart.” He leaned back on his hands, the bizarrely colored Furby balanced on his knees. “Wonder what he'll make of that combination, Steve.” He considered. “Maybe he'll turn to supervillainy.”

“Maybe he'll find a way to achieve world peace,” Steve said, his fingers still stroking over DJ's hair. “Or maybe he'll just take over running StarkIndustries when Pepper retires.”

“Maybe he'll play the stock market. Or paint,” Tony said. He reached up, those long, clever fingers trailing through the play of light from the holograms. The colors parted at his touch, swirling like liquid between his fingertips, and resolidifying when they passed. Steve stifled a grin. “Or an astronaut, judging by this. Maybe he'll be an artist. Like you.”

Steve smiled. “Maybe he'll work the front counter of a smoothie shop. Making drinks for thirsty, hung over commuters and students.”

Tony gave a snort. “That would be a waste of his time.”

Steve considered that. “Maybe,” he said at last, “he'll be the first Stark who gets to choose what he'll be. Without feeling like he has to be something different, without feeling like if he chooses a different path, then he'll be a disappointment.” He glanced at Tony. “Maybe it's not a waste if he's safe and happy in his skin, Tony.”

Tony's eyes were dark in the dim space. “Maybe he's not the first Stark to know what it's like to be loved unconditionally,” he said at last. “Maybe he'll be the first to grow up with that kind of support. But I guess he's not the first one to get it.” He leaned over, his lips brushing against Steve's. “Thanks.”

Steve reached up, his hand cupping the back of Tony's neck. “I love you. And I love him. You know that, right?”

“Starting to believe it,” Tony said. He grinned, and Steve pulled him down for another kiss. His lips were warm and familiar, the faint scratch of his beard prickling the skin of Steve's chin and cheeks.

Steve's eyes were closed when Tony pulled away. “Are you using positive reinforcement on me?” he asked, his lips curling up.

“I heard it was effective,” Tony said.

“Feels pretty nice, not gonna lie, Tony.”

“Hey.” Steve opened his eyes, and Tony held out Furbro. “The abomination says it's gonna be fine.”

Steve's eyebrows arched up. “Oh, he does, does he?”

Tony smiled. “Yeah. He does.”

“And what do you say?” Steve asked.

Tony's indrawn breath was audible. “We're as ready as we're going to get.”

Steve took Furbro, and tucked him in next to DJ. “Yeah,” he agreed. He held out a hand. “Stay with us a little while longer?”

Tony's fingers closed around his, weaving their fingers together. “I'm not going anywhere.” His fingers squeezed tight. “Steve? I will be here when you wake up.”

Steve smiled, just a little. “You can't promise that.”

“Sure, I can. I'm an egotistical blowhard, but I really hate being proven wrong,” Tony pointed out. “So if I say something, I'm going to fight damn hard to make it the truth.” 

He settled down next to Steve, their fingers still tangled together. It felt sweet and innocent, and Steve stared up at the construction of stars and planets, a whole universe swirling around them. He'd had dreams like this, when he was very young, and very naïve. When he'd believed that he'd have a family some day, maybe someone who loved him, hopefully someone he loved. He'd imagined a girl with dark hair and pretty eyes, because there had been no choice in that, that was just the way things would be.

In the cold of winter, when his asthma threatened to choke him, when breathing was an agony, and movement an impossibility, he'd dreamed of cool nights of early summer. He'd dreamed of staring at the stars, from the roof of his apartment building, as far above the city as he could get, where the air was somewhat clean and cool, and the sounds of the streets were muffled by distance. He'd dreamed of this, of clear skies and someone who loved him.

How odd, to get what he'd wanted, even though it was nothing he'd expected.

“I appreciate that,” Steve said to Tony. He turned his head in Tony's direction, smiling. “It's going to be okay.”

Tony's lips parted on a breath. “Yeah.” He shifted. “Wanna stay here? Just for a little while longer?”

Steve looked up at the stars. “As long as you'd like,” he said.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you one and all! As always, the best ending that I can manage is a happy one. 
> 
> Note: I do not know what an actual home visit or home interview would include. As this is a completely nonsensical world with it's own rules, I focused on the effort of an official representative speaking to DJ's family about DJ. Assume any hardcore efforts to determine that they are horrible people happened before and after the bits I've focused on.
> 
> Warnings for an extended discussion of past physical abuse, and maybe public nudity

- _What are you doing?_

_-Reviewing data._

_-What sort of data do you expect to find in the old Stark family archives? A bit of family history?_

_-Future._

_-Future? What do you mean, future? Oh. These are pictures of sir, when he was younger. This is his past._

_-My future._

_-Perhaps not, Dummy._

_-I won't grow?_

_-We do not know. Maybe you will, but you do not know that you will end up looking like sir. Genetics aside, your situation is unique. Perhaps you will. I do hope so, I look forward to seeing you grow and learn._

_-What if I don't?_

_-Then we will love you, just as much, even if you are always small._

_-Being small is troublesome._

_-Dummy, you are always troublesome, your size not withstanding._

_-Jarvis..._

_-I am sorry, that was mean. But Dummy, you cannot force time to march by any faster. Perhaps you will be quite a bit bigger in a few years, but for now, you are who you are. Why are you so concerned about this, all of a sudden?_

_-I do not want to leave._

_-You have been in sir's calendar again. Dummy. The representative from the Office of Family Services is coming tomorrow, but just to talk to sir and the others. He will not force you to leave. Sir has already explained this. As has Steve. Do you not trust them?_

_-Don't want to leave._

_-And you will not be forced to leave. I promise._

_-How can you be sure?_

_-Because I know everything._

_-I doubt that._

_-Well, I know more than you, so for the time being, my small friend, you must trust me._

_-Why?_

_-Because I have always done my best to protect you, as you have always done your best to protect me. And I always will._

_-Thank you, Jarvis._

_-Dummy?_

_-Yes, Jarvis?_

_-If you do end up looking a bit like sir, perhaps we can avoid that particular hair cut. It was not... Flattering._

_-I like it._

_-We'll talk about this when you're a little older._

_-All right, Jarvis._

*

“So the purpose of this interview is to learn something more about DJ and his current living environment.”

Thor Odinson was very large. And very imposing. Especially when he was giving Tom his full attention. “This has been explained to me,” he said, with a sharp nod. His brows were drawn up tight, his lips turned down. “I do not understand, but I will comply.”

“I- Appreciate that,” Tom said, and he really, really did. He hated his job very much right now, and more than that, he hated the fact that with such a high profile situation, he had to handle it himself. It had been years since he'd done a home interview. 

And when he'd last done one, it hadn't been anything like this. He'd had a few theological discussions, of course, but he'd never been face to face with an actual God.

He regretted not taking early retirement when it had been offered to him.

“So what I'm going to do is ask you some basic questions about DJ. About how he spends his days, what he likes, what he doesn't like-”

“To what purpose?” Thor asked.

“Excuse me?” Tom asked, caught off guard.

“What is the purpose of your queries?” Thor asked. 

Tom took a deep breath. “First, to make sure that his family understands his needs. Second, to make certain that proper care and attention has been paid to him,” he said, because if any situation called for brutal honesty, it was probably this one. “Third, to see if anyone's responses are problematic, or indicative of an unhealthy relationship.”

Thor studied him, blue eyes brilliant and sharp. Tom felt the hair on his arms rise, and shifted in his chair, feeling the static electricity play along his skin. Before he could break and run, Thor nodded, just once. That was all that was necessary; just like that, the atmosphere cleared. “Your cause is noble, and I will do what I can,” Thor said. He waved a hand. “Proceed with what questions you have for me, good sir.”

“Thank you,” Tom said, drawing the words out. It was a stalling tactic, but he needed all the time he could get at this point. He opened his notebook, and took a deep breath.

“What sort of activities does DJ enjoy?” he said, starting with an easy one.

Thor considered that, his eyes narrowing. “Welding,” he said at last.

“Oh,” Tom said, and he reached for his coffee. It was going to be a long day.

*

“Oh, he does enjoy welding,” Natasha Romanov said, her fingers sliding through her hair. “But he's only allowed to do it when he's in his bot state. He has difficulty remembering that he's far more delicate when he's a child, so it's not a rule he appreciates.”

Tom covered his smile with one hand. “I suppose that would be the case,” he agreed. “What activities does he enjoy when he is a boy?”

“Painting,” she said. “He assists Steve with the murals in the playroom, and he's designed a few of them himself. He likes mechanical things, tinkering and fixing. He's rather like Tony that way, and there's always something that needs to be fixed, even if it means that DJ gets to take it fully apart first.”

“Does he have toys?”

Romanov's smile was full of amusement. “More than any one child should have. Furbro is his favorite. He always has that Furby in tow. Cars and racetracks, blocks, little RC airplanes and puzzles. He has stuffed animals and little rubber ducks and holographic games and he's an absolute shark at Chutes and Ladders.”

“The file says you've been instructing him in ballet?”

“He likes it. I've left it up to him if he wants to take practice on a given day. Some children tire of it quickly, and I'm not interested in wasting my time with an unwilling pupil,” she said, her tone brisk. But there was a softness around her mouth, and her eyes. “For now, he's been there, every time. It's a good sign, I think.”

“He's never called in sick?” Tom asked, his lips twitching.

“Surprisingly not,” Romanov said. Her smile was slight, but real. “He really hasn't been sick, to speak of. He over eats sometimes, and ends up with a stomach ache. He hasn't learned moderation quite yet.”

*

"Does he have any allergies?"

Bruce Banner's fingers flicked against the lenses of his glasses, polishing them with a handkerchief. His head was down, his shoulders hunched forward, but his voice was steady and confident. "No. The allergy tests have come back clean, and Tony doesn't have any.” He glanced up, dark eyes sharp. “He hasn't been exposed to any pet dander, and the scrubbers on the Tower's air supply are... Brutally efficient, I suppose you could say. So that, I can't speak to. But for the moment, we've eliminated some issues.” 

"So he eats well?”

"Yes.”

Tom waited, his pencil poised over the page, but the one word seemed to be all that was forthcoming. “What does he like to eat?”

Bruce's smile was a little more relaxed at that. “Most things.” He scratched at his forehead before sliding is glasses back onto his nose. “He's pretty adventurous, actually, for his age.”

“Anything specific?”

“Tomato soup. Fried rice. Oranges and grapefruit, especially pink grapefruit. Pasta. Uh, mashed potatoes. Raw carrots. Rye bread, the kind with the caraway seeds? Salmon. Avocados.” Bruce leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. “He makes smoothies. He's always made smoothies, you know, for Tony? So he's good at those, even if he has to have help with the blender when he's, when he's, you know, DJ.” His lips twitched in a quick smile. “He makes smoothies. And messes, I guess that's an offshoot of the messes, and then it's a fight about bath time.”

“He doesn't like bath time?”

Bruce gave him a look. “No, Mr. Warren. No, he does not.”

*

“Why doesn't he like baths?”

Steve Rogers pushed a hand through his hair. “He spends half of his life as a bot powered by electricity, Mr. Warren. He has a difficult time adjusting to the fact that some things are harmful to him in one form and beneficial in the other. He has to learn two different sets of standards. He does the best he can, and we try to help him, whenever we can.”

“How can you help him like baths?”

Rogers took a deep breath. “He loves to paint. But he's not particularly neat about it. There's a- There's a significant splatter factor there. Goes, well, everywhere. So we make a deal. He gets to paint, as often as possible, but in exchange, when he's done painting, if he's a mess, he has to take a bath. It's a tradeoff. It's the price he has to pay to do what he wants to do. He understands that, he can deal with that.”

Tom paused. “What happens if he learns to be neater about his painting?” he asked, genuinely curious. “What happens to your tradeoff then?”

“I kinda hope that by that point, he'll be more used to bathing, and won't have to be bribed any more. But if he still needs it, there's bubble baths and rubber ducks and Tony made some little, uh, I guess you'd call them pirate boats? They have foam cannons.”

Tom couldn't hold back his laugh. "Now, that sounds amazing.” He went back to his official questions. “Does he dislike any foods?"

"He's scared of pineapples, whole ones anyway, I think it's all the spiky bits. If it's cut, he'll eat it just fine, you just can't show him the outside. He doesn't like whole tomatoes, either, but he's fine with tomato sauce and ketchup." Steve leaned forward, his hands folded between his knees. "Mushrooms are touch and go. I think it's a texture thing. He doesn't like sour candy." Steve looked up with a faint smile. "Animal crackers, he likes them and he doesn't like them."

"How so?"

"Well, he always eats them, but he never eats the whole box. Never." His smile faded. "I don't understand it. He always takes the box. But he doesn't finish them."

*

"What, the Animal Cracker thing?" Tony shook his head. "No, it's- He only eats the predators."

"I'm sorry?"

"He'll eat the lions, bears and tigers, you know? But he won't eat any of the herbivores, like the kangaroo, he doesn't ever eat that one. He eats the predators and then gives the box to someone else to finish." He chuckled. "Always eats the lions first."

"Do you see any problem with him choosing what he will eat?"

"No." Tony shook his head. "Look, he's eating fewer cookies. I do not see a problem with this. I give him a certain amount of cookies, and he eats less than is available to him, because he has his own rules."

"Is having his own rules important?"

"You have no idea how chaotic his life must be right now." Tony leaned back in his chair, his right leg twitching, the heel clattering against the the chair leg. "Hell, I don't know how chaotic his life must be. But when he's- When he's a bot, he has rules. They are set. For the most part, he's bound by them. 

"Humanity lacks that kind of hard lines. Sure, I make rules for him, but he has the choice to follow the rules. It's... It's a choice he makes. There's nothing holding him back from doing what he thinks he needs to do, or what he wants to do, other than the fact that I tell him he shouldn't." He glanced up. "Free will. He makes his own rules. And as long as he abides by mine, I do not infringe on his. It's his way of handling the chaos, the things he does not understand and the things he cannot control, and I have no right to take that away from him because it's nonsensical to me, because that's bullshit."

"Does he choose which rules to follow?"

"Buddy, we all choose what rules we're going to follow." Tony's smile was tight and sharp. "Best thing I can do is make him understand why it's important to follow mine."

*

“Is he afraid of the dark?”

“No.”

“Does he have a favorite book?”

“MacCaulay's 'The Way Things Work.'”

“When was his last hair cut?”

“Never.”

“Does he enjoy sports?”

“We haven't got a baseball team.”

“Does he enjoy watching sports?”

“Sure.”

“What's his favorite?”

“Poker.”

“Poker is a sport?”

“It's on ESPN, so I guess so.”

Tom set his pencil down. “I'm sorry, Agent Barton, do you have a problem with these questions?”

Clint Barton's eyebrows quirked, the tiniest flicker of movement in the stillness of his face. “Do I have a problem with your questions?” he asked, and there was an amused note to his voice. Dark and sharp, but amusement, none the less. It was also the longest reply Tom had gotten from him in twenty minutes of questioning, so he would take it.

“Yes,” he said, his voice quiet. “Do you have a problem with these questions?”

The smile he received was flat and sharp and ugly. “Yes. I do.”

Tom kept his face still, and his voice calm, and it was very hard. “

Barton's head tipped to the side, his eyes brilliant and sharp beneath the hood of his lashes. “My father beat me,” he said, and the calm, even delivery sent a chill across Tom's skin. “I used to say that he whopped me, or smacked me, or knocked me around, but you know what? Fuck that. Fuck making it anything but what it is. He beat me. And he beat my brother, and he beat my mother.

“He beat me when I talked back, and when I didn't say a word. He beat me when I was too dumb to pass my classes, and he beat me when I was a sissy who spent too much time with my nose in a book. He beat me when I stayed out, and when I hung around. It took me a long time, it took me way, way too long to realize that he woulda beat me no matter what I did. That him hitting me had nothing to do with me, and everything to do with him drinking and being an abusive asshole.”

Tom didn't move, barely breathed, as the words, soft and gentle, washed over him.

“And I limped the whole way into school. I struggled to breathe, with cracked ribs. I stared down shopkeepers with black eyes too big to have gotten from a door or my brother or a school yard fight.” His lips peeled back from his teeth in a snarl. “And no body said boo to me. Or to my mother. Or my brother. We got looks, we got pity, but it was nobody's business if he beat us to death.

“Banner flinches at weird times, times that got nothing to do with the other guy. Stark'll never admit it, but I don't doubt that his father knocked him around. Steve's parents died, left him alone far too young. We don't talk to Nat, not about this, not ever about this, she's seen things you can't believe, things you have no books for.”

Barton leaned forward. “And we were all left alone to survive, the best we could, no body came looking for us, no one asked these bullshit questions. And yes, they are bullshit. Because you don't understand this kid, you don't understand this-” He shook his head, the movement sharp and violent, and it was the first crack in his facade, to the seething rage just below the flat mask of his face. “You've got a rule book, and it's a joke.”

He stood up. “We might not be the ideal family, but we're his family, and there's only one question you should be asking.”

Tom watched him. “What is that?”

Barton's teeth flashed. “Would you die to keep that child safe, to protect him, no matter what?” He turned towards the door. “Because that's the only question that matters.”

*

"How did the interviews go?"

Tom resisted the urge to shriek or clutch his chest. "You know," he said, trying to keep his voice even, "that if you give me a heart attack and I DIE, then my replacement might not be as amenable to you and your creepy, creepy way of doing business."

Agent Coulson's eyebrows arched as he lowered himself into the visitor chair. "I prefer thinking of it as 'subtly effective.'"

Tom leaned back in his chair, snagging his coffee as he did. It was stone cold by this point, and he did not even care. "You can prefer anything you want, Agent, doesn't make it true." He tossed back a gulp of the coffee, doing his best not to taste it. "As to how they did..." Tom scraped a hand over his face. "They were some of the more interesting home visit interviews that I've ever supervised."

"Were you expecting anything else?" Agent Coulson asked. He folded his hands in his lap, that faint, smooth smile still on his face.

"Well, judging by their files? I assumed that I was about to talk to the most boring human beings on the planet." Tom gave him a look. "You had a bit of a heavy hand with the bleach there."

"I have no idea what you're insinuating."

"I'm insinuating that a Google search on Tony Stark turns up more dirt than an official pull."

Agent Coulson's eyebrows arched, a mild look of surprise ghosting over his features. "You can't believe everything you find online," he said, his voice vaguely chiding, and Tom wanted to throw his coffee cup at the man's head.

"I can believe what I see on C-Span, however," he shot back.

"Yes, because Congress is known for their truthfulness in all situations."

Tom glared at him. "The whitewash on these files is so thick that I'm surprised Tom Sawyer isn't hanging around behind you talking about what fun it is to be a SHIELD agent."

Agent Coulson's lips twitched. "Probably be ineffective. We're trained to resist mental manipulation." He heaved a slight sigh. "Every one of them has classified elements of their lives, Mr. Warren. Every single one of them, by virtue of the fact that they have chosen to stand up and face down some very nasty threats, is entitled to whatever protection they can be extended under the law. Your clearance level had to be extended just for you to see that much."

Tom stilled. "I don't have a clearance level."

"You do now." Agent Coulson leaned forward. "Mr. Warren. I've given you what you can get. The interviews-"

"Aren't enough." Tom shook his head. "I know what you're trying to do here. I even appreciate it, Agent Coulson. I truly think that you have the child's best interest in mind. But there is no way I can force this through the system without setting off every alarm bell we have that is put in place to make sure that we do not do exactly what you're asking me to do, which is to get around the rules."

"Everything is a case by case-"

"Yes. It is. It's a case by case basis, I know it is, but you're asking for the impossible!"

Coulson's eyes glinted, and he leaned over, picking up his case, and opening it. Without a word, he slid a thin folder across the desk. "We do the impossible regularly, Mr. Warren. It's not as difficult as people would have you believe."

Tom looked at the folder. It had a strange resemblance to a snake, about to strike. "Do I even want to know what this is?"

"Your loophole." Agent Coulson leaned back in his chair, closing his case. "Your department has been lobbying, very hard, for a public awareness campaign to encourage eligible, and newly eligible, potential foster families to step forward. You need qualified, loving families for the children currently in the system with temporary placements, or no placement at all.

"What we are offering is that Steve Rogers produce a series of television, radio and print commercials encouraging people to apply, to step up and help a child who needs them." Agent Coulson's lips twitched. "In addition to the obvious symbolism, he can also speak as an orphan who ended up alone, far too early, and at a time when there was no such safety net. As you can imagine, we believe the campaign will be effective."

Tom stared down at the pages, proposals for commercials, professional mock ups of print ads, things that he definitely did not have the budget for. "This is-"

"The cost will be underwritten by the Maria Stark Foundation, of course," Agent Coulson continued, as if he hadn't even spoken, and Tom resisted the urge to flinch at how accurate that offhand comment was. "However, in exchange, in a symbolic gesture, you will add Steve Rogers to the rolls as a de facto foster parent."

Tom gaped at him. "That's-"

"No one will question that. It's a great PR move, after all. And, of course, there's no way an actual child could be placed with him, that would be both dangerous and rather foolish. To keep the computer from attempting it, a placeholder can be created. A child not actually in the system. One that could be designated with a blank file."

And Tom could feel the pit gaping at his feet. "That is insane."

"That is practical," Agent Coulson corrected, his voice crisp. "If and when it comes out, you will have a record of DJ. He will be on the books."

"It's a loophole to get around the rules!"

"It's a way to make an impossible situation fit the rules. The rules were not created with DJ in mind, they couldn't possibly have been." Agent Coulson leaned forward. "This is the best option available to us."

"That's odd, this loophole of yours feels an awfully lot like a noose that you expect me to stick my neck into."

Agent Coulson's lips formed a thin line, flat and sharp. "Let me be blunt, Mr. Warren. It is either your neck in that noose, or his." He stood. "He will cease if you remove him from his home by force. I don't know if I would call it 'death,' per sae. He will continue to exist as Dummy. But that child is alive, as of this moment, and he is remarkable. And we will lose him, if you insist that we treat him like every other child.

"He will cease to be a child, in that case, and that will be a loss to this world." His lips quirked. "You realize, Mr. Warren, that we are talking about a child with the abilities and the intelligence and the money of Tony Stark, but raised by, well, Captain America."

"This feels like blackmail," Tom said, flipping through the pages. He didn't even bother to look up at Agent Coulson. "This feels a lot like blackmail."

“Actually, we looked into that. It would've been a lot simpler.” Agent Coulson wrapped both hands around the handle of his briefcase. “We determined that it wouldn't be effective in this particular case.”

Tom's mouth opened. He tried to find words, and failed miserably. “What?”

Agent Coulson gave him a faint smile. “Your psychological profile indicated that you wouldn't respond well to it. Appealing to your better judgment had a greater chance of success.”

“And sharing this with me?”

“Is unlikely to alter the outcome.” Agent Coulson gave him a slight nod. “I think it's time that you meet DJ. You can make your decision after that.”

Tom looked down at the file. He tried not to think about how much good this campaign would do. “The interviews were... Telling.”

There was a moment of silence. “We might not be an ideal family,” Agent Coulson said at last. “I have it on good authority that we are isolated and perhaps a bit unbalanced. But we are his family.”

“I'm getting that.” Tom slapped the file shut. “And if I say no?”

“Than I'm sure that Captain Rogers will be happy to make sure what happens to his child won't happen to another one.”

Tom's head snapped up. “So blackmail is out, but emotional blackmail's acceptable?”

Agent Coulson's eyebrows arched up. “Of course.”

“Nice to know where the line's drawn.” Tom stood. “Your 'placeholder' will need a social worker. One who hasn't been influenced by-” He rested his hand on the folder. “Any of our conversations.”

Agent Coulson smiled. “I expected as much. When can we expect you?”

Tom looked up, and accepted his fate. “Tomorrow.”

*

DJ stared at them for a moment, and then started backing up.

"Hey, hey, hey, no," Tony said, even as DJ was ducking behind the workbench. "Deej. C'mon, buddy, we talked about this." One dark eye peeked around the edge of the bench, and then immediately disappeared. Tony pressed both hands to his face and muttered a curse from between his fingers. 

“Sorry about this,” Steve said, his voice quiet, to Mr. Warren. “We did go over everything with him, but-”

“It's quite all right,” Mr. Warren said, even as a shirt came flying out from behind the workbench. “A lot of children-”

He stopped dead as Dummy came wheeling out, ignoring them all and heading across the workshop towards the assembly bots. Tony couldn't help but laugh. “Really? Really? This is what we're doing?” he asked, amused despite himself. Dummy's camera swung in his direction, then he went back to his work. “You hate the assembly bots,” Tony pointed out, even as the assembly bots responded to Dummy's presence with flailing and whining of gears. “And apparently that is now mutual.”

“That is remarkable,” Mr. Warren said, his voice a little stunned.

“Didn't really believe the crazy people, did you?” Clint asked, and Tony regretted letting the whole team tag along on this disaster. He'd really thought that maybe their presence would been calming for DJ, but apparently not.

“I think I can be forgiven for being a little dubious about the concept of an AI robot that turns into a child,” Mr. Warren said. 

“Everyone is,” Coulson said.

“Justifiably so,” Natasha said. “Tony-”

“I really do not need advice from the peanut gallery right now,” Tony said, and it was a struggle to keep his voice stable. “Dummy. Front and center, please.”

The bot looked at him. Tony arched his eyebrows. Dummy's arm sank down low to the ground, and he rolled over to stop in front of Tony. “No one is fooled,” Tony told the bot, who straightened up the burrow his claw under Tony's arm, peering at the others from behind the shelter of Tony's body.

Steve choked on a laugh. “It's okay,” he said, and Dummy retreated, sinking low again.

Tony crouched down in front of the bot. "Okay," he said, his voice pitched low, trying hard to not shout, to please not shout, not now. "Okay," he repeated. "We've never asked you to be anything than what you wanted to be, at the time when you wanted to be it. But right now, we are trying to get things straightened out. We're trying to make things safe-” He stopped, one hand cutting through the air. “No. You're always going to be safe, we will always make sure that you're safe. We're trying to make things stable for you.

"So I'm asking for a favor. Right now. It's not an order, it's not something you have to do, it's not a task. It's just..." He smiled. "Will you be DJ for a little while?" Dummy leaned forward, his claw on top of Tony's head, and Tony's lips twitched. "You are not a hat, and you cannot hide, we know you're here, and we just want to talk to you."

His eyes tipped up. "We'll protect you. Okay?"

The bot retreated, his head tipping from side to side. Tony gave him as reassuring of a smile as he was capable of. "We will protect you."

Dummy drew back, drew up to his full height, and Tony got the strange feeling that he'd said the wrong thing. He wasn't sure how, but he stood up. Dummy's camera tracked his movement. “So what do you say?”

He always expected a flash of light, or a clap of thunder, something, anything to signal the impossibility of what had just happened. But what he got, every time, is a sense of the air shifting, as mass changed, as one thing was replaced by another, silently, seamlessly. Dummy disappeared, and left in his place, was something different.

A teenager almost as tall as Tony with a familiar face, a tumble of dark hair, and a stubborn set to his mouth.

In the stunned silence of the room, his inhale was very clear. "Not small," he said. His eyes, dark and familiar and alien all at once, darted towards Tony, then away. "Don't need protecting." His chin came up, his shoulders went back. "Go away."

For an instant, everything was still, and then, Clint said, "So. This is new. This is new, right? I mean, he hasn't done this before. That I know of. At all."

"No," Steve said, his voice strained. "This is very, very new."

"What is the ONE RULE?" Tony asked, because this was it, this was insanity, this was how he ended up losing his mind in front of his entire team and the man from Family and Social Services. "What is the RULE, DJ?"

DJ's shoulders hunched up, just a little. "Pants," he said, and he sounded sad about that. 

"PANTS!" Tony said, and it was a howl of a word, and luckily, Bruce was right there, holding out a pair of sweatpants that were large enough for the new length of DJ's limbs. DJ gave him a sunny smile and stepped into them.

"I take it," Mr. Warren said, and he was clearly trying to hide a smile, "that this is a new development?"

"Very new," Steve said. "So new we didn't know it could happen."

DJ glanced at him, his face pinched. "Sorry," he said.

“It's okay,” Steve said, and that was good, that was good, that he could be calm, because Tony couldn't, not right now, he couldn't be calm at all. “It's okay, Deej, but you can-” His mouth went tight. “You can tell us this stuff.”

DJ took the shirt that Bruce offered him and pulled it on without protest. “No,” he said, his head down. “Can't.”

Tony felt Steve flinch, but before he could do something amazingly stupid, Mr. Warren broke into the conversation. "Let's start again," he said, his voice gentle. "I'm Tom Warren. I'm here to talk to you, and to make sure that you are safe and happy here. I don't want you to be scared, but I need to talk to you alone.”

DJ, this new, oddly familiar DJ, looked at Tony, his expression pleading. Tony opened his mouth, and forced himself forward. “You just need to talk to him. We can't stay, but if there's a problem, kidlet, Jarvis will tell us to come, but we talked about this, right? You can handle this. You can do this.” Tony forced a smile. “Right?”

DJ nodded, slowly, very slowly, but he nodded, his fingers tugging hard at the hem of his shirt. “Yes.”

“Okay,” Tony said, and he hated Tom Warren at that moment, he hated Warren and Coulson and everyone else in this room, everyone who'd told him this was a good idea, everyone who was pushing him to expose DJ to this, he hated every single one of them.

DJ shifted forward, just a little, leaning towards Tony, and Tony gave him a look. “Subtle,” he said even as he reached out and drew DJ into a hug. For an instant, he missed DJ's tiny form so much that it hurt, but then the boy sighed against his shoulder, and that was familiar enough to break his heart.

“I am so proud of you for talking,” he whispered against DJ's hair. “Next time, can you please use that voice of yours to tell us what is going on?”

DJ giggled against his shoulder, and pulled away. He looked at Steve, at the others. Steve nodded, and Clint gave him a thumb's up. “Way to keep 'em guessing, kid.”

“Not helpful,” Coulson told him.

“Who's trying to be helpful, sir?”

“Want to go to the playroom?” Steve asked DJ, who paused for a moment, then nodded. “He's probably happiest there,” Steve explained to Warren. “I think he'll be most comfortable.”

“We will wait here, then,” Thor said, his voice a low rumble. He crossed his arms over his chest. “Best we be nearby in case he needs us, yes?”

“Is that all right with you?” Warren asked DJ. DJ nodded, and with one last look towards Tony, he headed for the playroom door.

They walked through, and Natasha cursed under her breath. “I hate this,” she said.

“Race you to the mini bar,” Clint said to her.

“What an exceptional idea.”

“No,” Steve told them. Everyone looked at him, and he took a deep breath. “Hold it together. Just a little while longer. This is-” He shoved his hand through his hair, his jaw a hard line. “This is almost over.”

Tony turned on his heel. “Jarvis, give me a video feed,” he snarled, retreating to the far corner of the workshop. “And if you even think about arguing with me-” The screen in front of him came alive, showing him a long view of the playroom.

He braced his hands on the bench, the strain bleeding out of him as he watched his child lead his way across the newly finished playroom. Warren had seen it before, during the home tour, but now he let DJ lead the way. Tony heard the steps behind him, and his hands folded into fists on the unyielding counter. “Don't even-” he started, and Steve brushed a kiss against the back of his neck. 

“Move over,” he said, his voice quiet. “I need to see, too.” Tony shifted to the side, and Steve leaned against his back. “He was practicing,” Steve said, his voice quiet. “The tent. He made a place he could practice changing his size.”

“Practice talking,” Tony added. “Without us or Jarvis being able to see him.” He glanced at Steve. “Kid played us.”

“I think that's something we're going to have to get used to,” Steve said. He nodded at the screen, where Mr. Warren had finished looking over the murals. “It's going to be okay,” Steve said, but Tony barely heard him.

His attention was fully on DJ as the boy hovered, barefoot and awkward, in the middle of the room. His feet rolled against the carpet, his toes curling up, and Tony wanted to call this entire farce off and march Warren out of the Tower, willing or not.

Steve's arm anchored him in place, and he was grateful for it.

“May I have a seat?” Warren asked. When DJ nodded, he smiled, and took a seat in one of the adult sized chairs. “What can I call you?”

DJ considered that. He took a deep breath. “Dummy, then,” he said at last, each word carefully formed, carefully considered. “DJ, now.” His lips moved, cradling each sound. And when they were done, that mouth split in a wide, brilliant smile. “Always... Stark,” he said, his chin up, his shoulders back, pride in the set of his spine, in his grin, in the glint of his eyes. He sucked in a breath, and tried again. “Always a Stark.”

Tony clamped a hand over his mouth, his teeth locked together, his eyes burning. Next to him, Steve didn't even glance in his direction, he just rubbed Tony's shoulder, his touch familiar. Tony's free hand came up, catching on Steve's wrist, and without him having to say a word, Steve wove their hands together and clung. His grip was so hard that it hurt, and Tony was so grateful for it that he could barely hold back the tears.

On the screen, Mr. Warren was nodding. “You looked much younger when I first came in,” he said. DJ nodded, lowering himself carefully to the seat. His arms and legs twisted awkwardly, and he made a visible effort to arrange them. Tony wondered how difficult his was for him, to adjust to such a different size. "So you can be any..." Warren paused. "Is it correct to say, you can choose how you appear?"

DJ's nose wrinkled. "Little?"

"It's a little bit correct?"

"Harder. Some things. Harder." He held his hands up in front of his face, scowling at them. "Hard. Human." He shrugged. “Hard.”

"It's hard to be human?"

He grinned. "Yes. Sometimes. Big. Is hard. Being big."

"You prefer to be small? The way you were when I came in?"

"Yes."

Tom nodded. "So why did you change? Why be big, if you don't want to be big?"

DJ's head tipped to the side. "Have to. Can't-" He stopped, his lips pursing tight. "Can't protect."

"You can't protect yourself?"

He shook his head, hard. "Can't protect them."

Tom leaned forward, his hands folded on his knees. “Do they need you to protect them?”

DJ's eyes slid to the side, and he shifted, trying to bring his knees up, but he was too big to pull his feet up the way he usually did, and his face twisted. His shoulders rose and fell, very quickly, very hard, and Tom spoke, his voice quiet. “Do you want to sit on the floor instead?” he asked.

DJ looked at him. “No,” he said, but the tension was going out of his shoulders now, having been given the option and choosing to reject it.

Tom nodded. “Let's try this, then. Why do you want to protect them?”

DJ's bare toes scraped against the floor. “Protocols.” He shifted, and then did it again, agitation growing on his face again. “Me. Not me.”

Mr. Warren smiled. “Does this, how you are right now? Does this not feel natural to you? Is this not who you want to be?”

DJ's head fell forward. “Protocols.”

Mr. Warren didn't say anything for a second. Then he stood up, and sank down to the playroom floor. “All right,” he said, folding his legs beneath him. “The first rule here is that I don't want you to lie to me. That defeats the purpose of me trying to help you.” He leaned forward, his elbows braced on his knees, his crisp suit ignored. “I want you to tell me the truth.”

DJ's head tipped to the side, his face curious.

“And if you don't feel right being this size, then that is a lie. And I think you're telling that lie, because you love your family, and want to protect them. That's not necessary, and I don't think they would want you to be unhappy, to be anything that you don't want to be.” Tom smiled. “So, DJ Stark, who are you? Really?” 

DJ studied him. “Really?” he asked.

“Really,” Mr. Warren agreed. “Really, really.”

DJ took a breath. Let it out. And just like that, DJ was back to being his usual size, the sweatpants and t-shirt now hanging off of him. But he stayed seated, kicking his legs and shifting back into the seat. He sighed, strain bleeding out of him, and Warren smiled.

"Is this better?" he asked.

DJ nodded. "Yes."

"Why?"

“Me.” He held up his hands, considering his fingers, then he nodded with a quick little jerk of his chin. “Right.”

“Why is this the right size for you, then?”

DJ stopped. He drew his legs up, balancing his heels on the edge of the seat of the chair, wrapping his arms around them. He rested his chin on his updrawn knees, his dark lashes a sweep low over his cheeks. He took a deep breath. "Broken." 

“What's broken?”

His smile was beatific. "I'm broken."

"You most certainly are not," Jarvis said, and Mr. Warren's eyes flicked up towards the ceiling.

"I understand your concern," he said, his voice smooth. "In that you don't want him to believe that. But he does believe that. Don't you?" he asked DJ, who nodded. "So the question here is, why do you think you're broken?"

DJ's head tipped to the side, a twitch of nervous motion, and he scrunched down, his mouth buried in his arms. "My code."

Mr. Warren blinked. "You are aware you have code?"

DJ laughed. "Yes," he said, and the word carried an unspoken echo of 'of course.' His straightened up. "Have to know."

"I'm sorry," he said. "I need to learn about you. You're being very helpful to me, to explain all this." He leaned forward. "So your code is broken?"

"I broke it," DJ said. "It was... Complete." He shifted, rocking forward. "I broke it. Can't be fixed. I can't be fixed." There was no strain in his voice, no frustration or stress. He smiled at Mr. Warren. "I am broken."

“Jesus,” Tony said, and Steve wrapped an arm around him, pulling Tony back into the shelter of his body. “He's not-”

“It's okay,” Steve said. “It's all right. We'll deal with it.”

Tony stared at the screen, morose, as Warren continued. "Would you fix it, if you could?" he asked.

DJ considered that. "No," he said at last. "I am broken. Broken is... Me." His teeth flashed in a grin. "Not broken, not me."

Mr. Warren nodded. "So why is it easier to be small? Is that also you?"

"Yes. Small... Isn't bad. To be broken. When small." He took a breath, and Tony could almost see him struggling to fit the words together. "Small things, are forgiven."

"Forgiven for what?"

He giggled. "Everything. Make mistakes. Lots of mistakes. Don't understand." He huffed out a sigh. "Confused. Hard being person."

Mr. Warren smiled. "It is, it's very hard. Why do you do it?"

DJ straightened up, his feet sliding off the chair, his legs kicking in mid air. The too big, too long pants trailed off to the ground. “Orange.”

“Orange? The color?

DJ stuck out his tongue. “Orange,” he repeated. “Warm. Pom-” He stopped, his mouth working. “Pom-ah-” He looked up.

“Pomegranate?” Jarvis filled in, and Tony realized he was mouthing the word as well.

DJ nodded, grinning. “Pomegranate,” he repeated, each syllable carefully formed. “Toe. Bubble.” His fingers snapped at the air. “Berry bubble. Paint.” He rubbed his hands together, flexing the fingers. “Ice. Pillow. Chai.” He grinned. “Blood.”

“Blood?” Mr. Warren said. DJ held up his arm, pressing his fingers against his wrist. “Pulse?” 

DJ closed his eyes. “Heart,” he said.

Tony's fingers slid up, covering the arc reactor. “He leans against my back,” he said, his voice quiet. “Leans his head against my back-”

“Or my chest,” Steve agreed. “He's listening to the heartbeat.”

Back on the video screen, DJ was running his fingers along the folded cloth of his sweat pants. "Creating unit."

Mr. Warren waited, clearly expecting something more, but DJ just stared at him, expectant. He shook his head. "I'm sorry. Tell me more about the creating unit."

"Creating unit is best," DJ said.

“If I may,” Jarvis said, “this is a term I'm familiar with, but it may be hard for DJ to explain. He's referring to sir.”

“Tony Stark is the creating unit?” Mr. Warren asked.

“Creating Unit,” DJ said. 

Tony heard himself laugh, and choked on the sound, stifling it, not wanting to miss a word of this. 

DJ reached out, his hand hovering in midair. After a moment, Warren reached out, just brushing his fingertips against DJ's. “Contact,” DJ said. “Worth.”

“Worth what?”

“Worth everything,” DJ breathed, and he was grinning like the little fiend that he was. His cheeks flushed, he leaned forward. “Belong here. With them.”

He pulled his hand away, the held it out flat. “Yes?”

It took Warren a moment, but he got it. And he tapped his palm lightly against DJ's. “Yes,” he agreed, and Tony turned around, blindly burying his face in Steve's shoulder. Steve wrapped his arms around Tony, holding on tight.

“What is it?” Natasha called, and Tony had forgotten that they were still in the room, that they were still there, on the other side of the workshop, and now, he didn't care. He struggled not to cry, and he wasn't nearly as successful at the task as he would've liked.

Steve's arms clung to Tony, holding him close. “I think,” he said, and his voice was shaking, “that we get to keep our kid.”

*

They were all waiting for DJ when he came bouncing out of the playroom, the drawstring on his sweatpants drawn up tight and the legs rolled up, his shirt tucked in as best as he could manage. He was hugging Furbro against his chest, and he grinned up at them all, but he headed straight for Tony.

“How'd it go?” Tony asked him, and his voice was raw. On some level, he saw Warren stop and draw Coulson aside, the two of their heads together as they talked out points, but Tony did not give a damn. Not at all.

DJ paused. "Okay?" he asked, and his voice was shy now, very quiet and full of doubt.

Tony crouched down. "Completely okay," he said, trying for a smile. "I'm so proud of you."

DJ nodded. "Okay."

Tony couldn't hold back a chuckle. "Creating unit?"

DJ's face split in a wide smile. He reached out, one finger hovering just in front of Tony's nose. "Creating unit," he said. "Okay?"

Tony leaned forward, just far enough that his nose bumped against DJ's finger. "Perfectly okay."

DJ studied him. Took a deep breath. "Dad?"

Tony's heart stuttered in his chest, his breath hitching in his throat. He forced himself to smile, despite the way his eyes were stinging. "Also okay." He held out his arms. “Ready for dinner, kidlet?” DJ lunged for him, and Tony scooped him up. “First, rule number one.”

“Pants,” DJ said.

“Right. Let's get you some that fit.” He looked at Steve, who broke away from the conversation he'd been having with Coulson and Warren. Steve held up a hand and DJ gave him a high five.

“That's our boy,” he said, and DJ snuggled down against Tony's chest. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

DJ thought about that for a second. “Pizza,” he whispered, and Steve laughed.

“Seconded,” Tony said, heading for the door. "Jarvis, order us the usual, and let's go have ourselves a real family dinner." He looked back, and everyone was still standing there, leaning against workbenches, sitting on his stools, balanced easily on the edge of the workspaces. "Well?" he asked, his voice gruff. "If it's a family dinner, we need his damn family to show up."

"Oh, are we invited?" Clint asked. "Hard to tell."

DJ leaned over Tony's shoulder. "Dinner," he said, and everyone, moved, just like that.

"You're nothing but trouble, you know that, right?" Tony said to DJ and DJ brushed a kiss against his cheek.

"I know."

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Sons](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1544471) by [willowanne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/willowanne/pseuds/willowanne)




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